Cut and Carried on a Fifteen Puzzle
by darthsydious
Summary: For Likingthistoomuch. Victorian!lock. Sherlock and Molly are in an unhappy, arranged marriage. Molly is overworked from worry for Sherlock and his bad habits. Mycroft decides it is time to intervene. Sherlolly, Mythea, and eventual Warstan.
1. This River Between Us

221b Baker Street was silent. On occasion there could be a violin being played into the wee hours of the night, or, on one particularly strange afternoon, a gun being fired (no deaths nor injuries were reported, but neighbors did wonder). One particular evening, long after midnight, a fine black carriage pulled up outside of 221b, the occupant bounded from within, dashed up the steps and rapped noisily on the door. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, rose with a yawn, gathered her dressing gown and candle and went to see who it was.

The footman (Jimmy) beat her to the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, but putting on a show of being larger than he was (a lad all of seventeen, and a slight lad at that).

"I am sure it is only Mr. Holmes forgetting his key," Mrs. Hudson said. Before either could open the door, again someone pounded on the other side.

" _Hurry up in there, it's a matter of life and death!"_

"Merciful heavens!" Mrs. Hudson unlocked the door, stepping back just as Mycroft Holmes entered, thrusting his umbrella into Archie's hands.

"Is my sister in-law at home?" The elder Holmes demanded.

"Yes of course, where else would she be, I should like to know!" Mrs. Hudson blustered. "I'll go and wake her-"

"I'll fetch her myself, thank you," Mycroft was already halfway up the stairs.

"It's not fit- oh do as you please…" Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands, annoyed.

Molly had heard the door downstairs, by the time Mycroft knocked on her door, she was already buttoning up her grey walking dress.

"Just a moment," she called tiredly. Seeing she was decent, she opened her door. "Where is he this time?" she asked, weary, already guessing where her missing husband was.

Mycroft, somewhat out of breath from taking the steps two at a time answered, "Doss house, up Commercial Road."

Her shoulders sagged, but she nodded. "Let's go then."

Two years ago, Molly never would have guessed she would be making monthly visits to the East End to fetch her husband from opium dens or whatever other form of awful drug he decided to put into himself. She never would have thought these low spirits could be so wearing, that a marriage could be so dreadfully unhappy, nor a body so unloved.

Molly Hooper, now Holmes, was part of an arranged marriage. Sherlock Holmes of no particular employ, nor any care to, was the son of Lord Sigurd Holmes, was her husband, and did not seem at all keen on being any sort of husband. He had performed his husbandly duties at least thrice, the third time being quite recent. A child had resulted, but Molly had been unable to carry it to term, the strain of worry for her husband seemed the most likely cause. Whether or not her husband knew of the loss, she could not say. He'd been higher than a kite the day she lost the child.

Mycroft, for his part, kept constant tabs on his brother, often Sherlock's Irregulars would inform Mycroft's men if the younger Holmes was taking part in a nasty habit. Sherlock did not trust anyone to help him down from his highs but Molly. Why Molly was accorded this privilege, no one could say. Molly's life was…chaotic, in an eerily calm sense. She went about her daily routine, but always with a niggling fear in the back of her mind. How would she find her husband? Would she even see him? Would he be away for days on end, supposedly doing a favor for Scotland Yard as he sometimes did? Or would he merely be sequestering himself away in some doss house, indulging in dreadful poisons that he seemed hell-bent on filling himself with.

No, Molly Holmes' marriage was not a happy one. There were times that Sherlock could be quite nice. Of course, that is not to say he was ever cruel to her, not with intent to be so, at any rate. Sherlock Holmes had not wanted to be married, not in the slightest. Mycroft Holmes had hoped the marriage might settle his brother somewhat. Despite his opposition to the match, Sherlock did not go out of his way to make Molly miserable. He was simply doing what he'd always done before they'd been married: solve a crime here and there and when Scotland Yard had had enough of him showing them up, would dally off to find a discrete drug den and see what was being passed about.

Mycroft waited for Molly to pin her hat on. "You're sure you'll come? Ought you be out so soon after…" Mycroft trailed off, glancing at her. Only he knew of Molly's awful loss, and he'd done his best to see that she was kept comfortable.

"It's been over a month now," Molly shrugged. "It's all right. Anyway he wouldn't come if it were only you."

"Very well then," he gave his arm, and they started downstairs.

 **Doss House, Commercial Road**

Sherlock's world was blissfully calm. With the exception of the rank smell (why were doss houses so awfully stinking?), and the half-flattened pallet he laid on, Sherlock had not a care in the world. Morphia did that to a person. It kept his otherwise too-busy brain calm, it made everything slow and peaceful and absolutely marvelous.

" _Sherlock,"_

A soft voice was calling him, a familiar one at that. Opening his eyes, he lifted his head with a grunt.

"Mrs. Holmes," blearily, he blinked at her. Even in this state, he was deducing her. Her dress was one of her walking gowns, one she could put on herself without any assistance. Dark circles were under her eyes, "Did M'croft wake you up?"

She slipped the handle of her purse onto her arm, reaching for him to help him sit up. "Yes. I'm glad he did. Sit up for me, please."

"Don't want to," he grunted.

"Sherlock," that was all she said, but her tone said it all. There was some strength in her voice, despite her exhaustion.

He sat up then, slowly, blinking. "S'hot in here."

"I know it is," Molly nodded, despite the fact that her teeth were chattering. "What did you take, and when, and how?"

"Morphia, about…eleven I think…needle. What time is it now?"

"Half-past three," Molly replied. "Come on, we've got to get you home before you start feeling the withdrawals."

"Easy way to remedy that, my pet," Sherlock straightened to his full height, tapping the end of her nose as he swayed. "Just get another dose."

"I think you've had enough," Molly said, taking him by the arm. "What good would you be for me if you were always high?"

His stumbling steps faltered, and he looked at her, half-leaning against her. "Am I good for you, Molly?"

She paused, glancing at him. "Sometimes," Molly replied at last. "Sometimes you can be quite nice."

He studied her, his expression was a rare one for Molly, when she could see the beginnings of understanding in him, that what he was doing was bad, bad for him, bad for her. The moment was broken when he grinned at her. "Was good to you a month or so ago…wasn't it? That what you meant, Mrs. Holmes?"

She didn't answer him, the subject still painful. Instead she hefted his weight, getting him moving again.

Together they made their way out of the building and up into the carriage where Mycroft was waiting.

"Brother dear!" Sherlock immediately scowled. "What brings you here to ruin my lovely evening?"

"My concern for your wellbeing, and the extreme worry for my sister in-law at your hand."

"Nonsense," Sherlock snorted.

"I thought you were going to be working for Scotland Yard," Mycroft changed the subject.

"Did. Case was awful. Solved it as soon as I saw their 'spiders web', if you want to call it that. God, I am so bored!" Sherlock roared, then threw himself against the seat, slouching low. He pushed his hat low over his forehead, shutting his eyes. "Wake me when we get home."

Mycroft looked apologetically at Molly, who simply turned her head to watch the passing scenery.

 **221b Baker Street**

"This cannot continue."

Mycroft looked up to the doorway of the parlor where his sister in-law stood. She'd removed her coat and hat, and wore an apron now, her sleeves rolled up.

"I know."

"I mean it, Mycroft," Molly insisted.

She stood terribly still, where she got her strength from, Mycroft wished he knew.

"We will be careful-"

"I don't want to be careful, I want him _safe_!" Molly cried. "I know we say it every time 'it can't keep happening', well it is, it's happened again. I am tired of you trying to sort this out. He needs to work. Not for the sake of money," Molly held up her hand, seeing her brother in-law look startled. "I mean for himself. His mind cannot sit idly by, just the same as you. Scotland Yard was promising. Make him a detective there."

"No," Mycroft shook his head. "He would not stand for it. Too many rules, too many regulations. They'd sack him in a week."

"Then find him cases," Molly pressed. "This is London, for pities sake, there must be people who the police cannot help, cases that have gone cold. Get him something interesting. A murder…a-a- missing persons file…I don't know! There must be someone at the Yard who can put up with him, who needs him. He's good, he's very good, you know he is, but these little bits and pieces that come his way aren't enough. He just needs to get a foot in, and then…" Molly threw up her hands, helpless. "I don't know, maybe people will start coming to him for help."

"He is not a Robin Hood, Molly," Mycroft warned.

"I know he isn't," she insisted. "But he does care, despite what you think. He likes helping people, he likes puzzle solving more, and he likes solving cases faster than Scotland Yard best."

Slowly, Mycroft nodded. "Place an advertisement in the London, stating Sherlock Holmes is available for cases, missing persons, the like."

"What sort of hire?" Molly asked. "He's got to be saying what he's being hired for."

"Oh I don't know, make something up. And put a consultation fee in as well, or else you'll be swamped with every Tom, Dick and Harry missing a cat."

A cry from upstairs made them both turn.

"Withdrawls," Molly said. She looked at Mycroft. "I'll see to him, don't worry. I'll place the advertisement in the morning."

"I'll leave you to it then."

As he was heading for the door, Molly suddenly grasped his arm. "Have you given any thought yet? To what I asked?"

He turned, recalling then her query some months ago.

"I have," he nodded, turning to face her entirely now. "I will admit plans were set in motion, then paused since the incident last month but…" he studied her. "Are you certain?"

"Yes I am. I need to do something. Once I am sure that Sherlock is set up and safe, I can start."

"Very well. I shall tell Doctor Stamford to expect you. The paperwork will be sorted in the morning, you'll have to meet with the board of university, but it seems to me that you shan't have any trouble attending."

"Yes, but getting a position afterwards?"

"Doctor Stamford has promised me we shall be pushing at an open door, when the time comes," Mycroft promised. "You were wise, sister-mine, choosing your profession."

Molly smiled, somewhat pleased. "I simply decided that the jobs men are least likely to want, a woman ought to have a better chance of securing."

"Indeed," Mycroft nodded. "But are you certain that pathology is the correct-"

"Yes," she interrupted. "I am sure."

"Very well," he nodded. "Let me know how he gets on," he said and touching the brim of his hat to her, went down to the waiting carriage.

Molly turned and headed upstairs to where Sherlock was waiting for her.

In his bedroom, he was sprawled across the bed, bedclothes strewn here and there. Molly rolled him onto his side, covering him up again. He began to tremble and shake. '

"That you, Molly?"

"It's me," she wiped his damp brow, carding her fingers through his hair. "It's going to be all right, I'm here with you now."

"I'm cold…"

Hitching up her skirts, Molly climbed up behind him, looping her arms around his middle, she curled against him, bringing the covers up over them.

"There's a bowl on your bedside table, if you're going to be sick."

"No," he shook his head, still trembling. "Just cold…was careful with the solution this time…" he scratched at his flesh, feeling the scars on his forearms. There was an itch, a constant need after the morphia wore off to get more. Just a little more. But Sherlock knew he'd had enough. If he had any more, he'd be very ill. He sighed heavily. "Did I ruin your evening?" he asked tiredly through his tremors.

"You always ruin it, when you do this," Molly answered softly.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Her cheek was against his shoulder, her body pressed against his back, sharing body heat to keep him from shaking. This was not the first time she'd done this. In fact she had learned very early in their marriage what to do when he began to suffer withdrawals. Not that he indulged a great deal…just…whenever he needed to get the world to shut up. Sighing heavily, he patted her hands on his waist.

"I'm sorry, Molly."

Quiet then, and for a moment, he thought she'd fallen asleep. Instead, he felt her take a shuddering breath.

"That's the trouble though," Molly said at last, her voice watery. "You're never sorry enough to stop."

He had no answer for her. There was always clarity in his withdrawals. Always the moment, as if between asleep and waking when he wondered what in God's name he was doing to himself. It was troubling, being subject to an inanimate object. He felt a stab of guilt then, remembering (as he often did in these moments of clarity) that Molly was the one to suffer for his using. At first he did not understand why she took it so personally, and he rolled around the facts that he was aware of, trying to come up with an answer that made sense. He delved deeper into his mind-palace, pulling out everything he had on his wife. He recalled the day they met, she was all in pink (clearly her mother's choice, as if anyone would suspect she was anything but a blushing virgin). The three-month courting period. She'd begged him to tell her all about the few local cases he'd solved at his family's estate. Stolen goods, one murder, nothing terribly stellar, but her eyes had danced when he told her. He had mistaken her happiness during their courtship for blind infatuation. But infatuation is put to the test soon enough. A wife that is neglected or abused swiftly falls out of the idea of loving her husband, and would go about her own day, not caring what happened. But Molly was always there, always ready to assist. Molly would come for him no matter what time, no matter where he was, even if he was in an unfit state.

Sherlock realized that he knew very little about the woman who so clearly loved him. That was the only fact he was in possession of: that she loved him. It is jarring, to suddenly realize the woman who you have married, bedded, and share a home with is a stranger to you. Sherlock blinked again. Indeed, Molly was someone he barely knew, yet here she was, arms wrapped around him, an embrace more deserving of perhaps someone who earned it, Sherlock most certainly felt he had not. In a little while, he'd fall asleep, and he'd not rise until long after breakfast, probably near luncheon. Still, as he felt himself drifting off that he regretted the distance between himself and Molly. He regretted that by his actions he had been the one to do it. It was like a great river he could not cross, and there she was on the other side, waiting for him to come and meet her. Sherlock wasn't' certain he wanted a wife, but he was sure of one thing at this very moment: he wanted to keep Molly as his friend, if only he knew how to start.


	2. The Flatmate

In the following week, plans were set in motion: while Molly helped Sherlock through his withdrawals and got him back on his feet, Mycroft scoured London for a suitable flatmate for his brother. Molly clearly could not control her husband (and it certainly was not her job to, nor was it her fault that Sherlock was imbecilic at times). A flatmate, however, one that suited Sherlock's personality, his need for excitement and prove a willing distraction, however, might be just the thing to keep Mycroft's brother from using. Molly was of course, kept abreast of the plan, and was in agreement, though she had some reservations of a stranger coming to Baker Street, supposedly with the intent to mind her husband. Who on earth would agree to be a flatmate for a married drug-addict who liked to solve crimes for Scotland Yard?

Doctor John Watson, Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was not having a very good day. The old wound in his shoulder was aching massively, probably due to the cold, damp weather, and he was fairly certain he'd just been kidnapped. Kidnapped to a rather well-furnished salon, as it happened, but kidnapped none-the-less, as this was not the address he had delivered to the cabbie. Hat in his hands, he studied the room, wondering if perhaps the army was trying to get in contact with him again.

The door across the room opened, and a lithely built man with a thin nose and glittering eyes entered with a folio. "Have a seat, Doctor Watson," the man said.

"I'll stand, thank you, sir," Watson replied, clipped.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Very well then," he crossed the room, taking up the chair behind the desk. "You must be wondering why you've been brought here."

"It is a question that begs asking," Watson agreed.

"I understand you were injured during the war, and are having a difficult time finding a suitable flat on the pension the army has left you with."

"Fighting for Queen and Country wasn't enough to secure my living, it seems," Watson answered with a nod, then quickly apologized, "I don't regret my service, sir, please don't mistake, but it seems to me that a man who was injured defending his country ought to be given more than barely a working wage."

"Indeed," the gentleman agreed. "That is why I have sent for you, to give my assistance."

"Your assistance, sir?" Watson frowned.

"Yes. There is a place, a townhouse, the resident there is looking for a flatmate, it's a respectable house, a housekeeper, cook, a maid and a hall boy."

"Begging your pardon, but if the gentleman can afford a housekeeper as well as staff, what does he need a flatmate for?"

The gentleman's smile was secretive. "What indeed, Doctor Watson?" his hand delved into his inside coat pocket, removing a calling card and placed it before Watson. "There is the address, should you decide to inspect the premises for yourself."

Watson studied the card. He did need a place to live. The garret he currently occupied was hardly a fit place for anyone to live. Watson desperately wanted to leave the leaking, stinking walk-up he was residing in. A London townhouse _with staff_ was too good to be true.

"You will find your share of the rent written on the back," the gentleman added after a moment.

"This…cannot be correct."

"My…friend…is in dire need of a flatmate."

"I take it money is not the trouble."

"No," the gentleman agreed. "Money is hardly a problem. He needs…minding, if that makes any sort of sense."

"Is he in danger?"

"A danger to himself. It would not be much trouble for you, he is bored easily. You could certainly operate your practice from the house as well, there is plenty of room."

"And your friend, as you put it, what sort of danger is he in?"

"Nothing that will do you any harm," the man answered carefully. "I do hope you will take up the generous offer though. It does seem like a fair exchange, your living in a fine home in London, in exchange for a very generous rent as well as popping in to check on my friend every now and again."

"I shall have to think about it," Watson said at last. "I shan't take very long to decide, but I will go and see the house."

"Today, if possible, Doctor Watson," the man urged gently. "The housekeeper is expecting someone to call shortly."

"Very well," Watson nodded. He glanced around the room. "Am I free to go now?"

"Certainly," the gentleman answered agreeably. "Do feel free to call if you have any questions at all."

Watson was on the sidewalk hailing a cab when he realized he'd not the faintest idea the address or how even to reach this gentleman, nor indeed what his name was.

* * *

 **221b Baker Street**  
When Watson departed from the cab, he was surprised to see an old friend of his about to ring the bell of the very residence he was going to inspect.

"Stamford!" Watson called.

"Doctor Watson, how are you sir?" Doctor Stamford shook his hand. "Come to see Mr. Holmes I expect?"

"Er, yes, I expect. I've come to see about lodgings,"

"Oh I see, well you'll not find better lodgings, that is for certain."

"I ought to call a different day," Watson said. "If they are expecting you,"

"Nonsense, nonsense, I've only come to deliver a parcel, paperwork, really, they'll be pleased!" with that Stamford took him by the arm, pulling him up the steps and ringing the bell to the house.

The housekeeper, a pleasant looking woman ushered them in, greeting them happily. They were shown into the parlor where a woman was seated. Upon seeing them, she stood, setting aside her mending and extended her hand to each of them.

"Doctor Stamford, I had not realized you would be bringing me the paperwork," the woman smiled pleasantly. "I hope that it does not appear as favoritism."

"Nonsense," Stamford handed her the parcel. "I assured Lord Thorne Thorne that I would bring them myself, he did not like to risk the Royal Mail with such important documents."

"Thank you, just the same, I know it was out of your way," the woman set the package aside, then turned to Doctor Watson (who was feeling somewhat confused at this point). "You must be the man looking for lodgings."

"Er, yes," Watson fiddled with his hat.

"Forgive me," Stamford touched his friend's arm. "Mrs. Holmes, this is Doctor John Watson, he was a captain in my regiment, you'll not find a better man, nor a finer shot in all of England." Stamford grinned at his friend. "This is Mrs. Holmes, she'll be attending St. Bartholomew's for a medical course this coming semester."

"How do you do," Watson shook her hand. "I hope you enjoy your nursing studies."

Both Stamford and Mrs. Holmes exchanged smiles. The woman lifted her chin somewhat.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson, but I shan't be studying nursing."

Watson glanced between the pair of them, frowning. "Midwifery?"

"No," her smile was positively catching, and Watson could not help himself.

"What then?"

"Pathology," Mrs. Holmes was positively beaming.

"Oh." Watson did not know what to make of this information. "Well that's…er…

"Careful Doctor Watson," Stamford said, low, but loud enough for Mrs. Holmes to hear. "Mrs. Holmes has friends in high places."

"Don't tease him, it is a shock," Mrs. Holmes admonished. "I don't expect to have an easy go of it, not only for the difficulty of the subject, but the fact that my sex is apparently a massive problem to the general population."

"Nevertheless, we are pleased to have you," Stamford said. "Now then, I have delivered the paperwork, I must be off, I'll leave you to sort out your new lodger," with that he tipped his hat and showed himself out.

Watson was left standing in the parlor of Baker Street, hat in hands, thoroughly confused as to what just happened.

"That's how things are, usually, I'm afraid," Mrs. Holmes said. "I'm sorry if it's a bit mad."

"No it's…fine," Watson blinked. "I was not expecting…well any of this, to be honest. I was told that a gentleman residing here was looking for a flatmate, but if you also reside here-"

"I am his wife," Mrs. Holmes soothed. "Mr. Holmes is my husband, and yes, he is looking for a flatmate."

"But…I- em-what?"

"My husband is a peculiar gentleman, Doctor Watson, he is not by any means ordinary. I should like, if you are interested in living here, for you to pretend as if I am not at all here. My husband hardly notices my comings or goings, nor is he aware of my studies." She stood up suddenly. "Will you see the rest of the house?"

Watson, unable to form a sentence at this point, stood up, nodding that he would.

Baker Street was set up very well, it was a comfortable house, and while the bric-a-brac was odd, Watson found himself, despite reservations and the very strange requests of Mrs. Holmes, wanting to live at Baker Street.

"The rear parlor will be your practice, that is if you would still like to operate from Baker Street,"

"Thank you, ehm, I should like that very much," Watson answered. He looked at the room, crossing it in a few strides.

"There is excellent light," Molly opened the drapes. "So you needn't fear on that account, and there is an oversized cubby where you could keep your desk and papers," she went to a tapestry that hung on the far wall, and pulling it aside, opened the door hidden behind it.

Watson poked his head into the small room that had been set up more like a butler's pantry than a cubby, with counters on either side of the small room.

"This could do very well," he agreed.

"I would offer you the cellar, but my husband keeps his laboratory down there."

"A laboratory!" Watson exclaimed, surprised.

"Yes he is fastidious about his experiments and does not like to be disturbed."

"Is that where is he is now?"

"Yes, he'll be up some time near dinner time, if all goes well," Mrs. Holmes nodded. "Now, about rent-"

"Please," Watson held up his hand. "It is more than fair, it is positively generous, I shall be pleased to pay more than that, especially considering that I shall be able to practice from here as well."

"It is my pleasure, and honestly, you'll be doing be a tremendous service."

They chatted for a bit longer, Watson growing more and more comfortable by the moment. Surely this was all too good to be true! Certainly, it was a queer circumstance to be moving into the home of a married couple, and on so little information, but Watson could not help but go along with it. Mrs. Holmes was so obliging and honest, he felt quite comfortable in her presence. He could not imagine her husband to be at all any trouble. He was about to say that very thing when suddenly a door at the end of the hall banged open. Watson was on his feet immediately.

"Do forgive my husband," Mrs. Holmes said, rising as well. "He's on a case at the moment."

"A case?"

"Yes, Scotland Yard calls upon him now and again when they are…stuck."

"Stuck?" he parroted. Scotland Yard oughtn't be getting 'stuck' on cases, in his opinion. He was about to ask something else when there was suddenly a figure in the doorway.

"Molly," the man said, to which Mrs. Holmes lifted her head. "Why didn't you tell me we had company? Never mind, you'll have to do the entertaining."

"A breakthrough?" She asked, looking rather excited, much to Watson's surprise.

"Yes! I must go down to Poplar."

"Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes held out her hand for him to stay. "This is Doctor John Watson, Doctor Watson, this is my husband, Mr. Holmes,"

Watson held out his hand for Holmes to shake, which he did not.

"Doctor Watson will be lodging with us," Mrs. Holmes continued. "He'll be renting the spare room at the end of the hall, and he'll have his practice here, in the back parlor."

Sherlock paused, studying the good doctor.

"Any good? At your profession, I mean."

"Yes, very good," Watson nodded confidently.

"I see," Sherlock stood half in the doorway, still scrutinizing him.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes cautioned, seeming to know what he was doing.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Holmes interrupted.

Watson frowned, quite surprised. "I'm sorry?"

"Were you stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan," Watson replied. He glanced between Mrs. Holmes and her husband, who seemed fixated on putting his coat on.

"I'll be back late, Molly," Holmes said, his back to them. Without a second thought, he reached behind the door and flung a walking stick towards them. Watson caught it immediately, now aghast. Holmes whirled around, grinning.

"You'll do."

"Sorry?" Watson again looked helplessly to Mrs. Holmes. "Do for what?"

"Flatmate of course," Holmes said. "Do keep up. Know anything about a man called Enoch Drebber?"

Watson shook his head, thoroughly confused.

"Thought not. He's been murdered."

"Oh! That is…ehm…what?!"

"I'm helping Scotland Yard, and I could do with an extra pair of hands. Are you interested?"

"In solving a murder?" Watson thought for a moment. Well he had been tasked with looking after this (perhaps unbalanced) gentleman. "I suppose so…"

"Good!" Holmes finished buttoning his coat, approached his wife and kissed her cheek as if it were strictly habit. "Goodbye Molly, we'll be back late, oh! And you may inform my brother I have found work."

"Really?" Mrs. Holmes looked pleased. "What as?"

"A Consulting Detective."

"A what?" Both Watson and Mrs. Holmes said at once.

"A Consulting Detective," Holmes repeated. "The only one in the world. It makes perfect sense! Come Watson, we'll be late. Inspector Lestrade is already waiting for us!" He jogged out of the parlor, straight to the front door.

"I might have known," Mrs. Holmes said with a shrug and a weary smile. "Well never mind, you'd best do as he says. If you'll give me your address, I'll make the arrangements for your things to be brought here."

"Oh there is no need, I can manage, you needn't trouble yourself," Watson assured her.

"Nonsense, I'll need something to do now, I'll see that no damage is done."

"Thank you," Watson delivered his address, glancing at the door as Holmes bellowed for him to hurry up. "Is he always like this?"

"Most times," she smiled. "And you may as well call me Molly, we'll be seeing plenty of each other."

Watson nodded, promising he would before he shook her hand once more and hurried after Holmes.

Once certain Doctor Watson and her husband were gone, Molly sent for some of the Irregulars. "Go and see about fetching Doctor Watson's things, be careful with them, here is money for a cart, and a little something for your trouble. Mrs. Devon will have a plate of something hot for you all when you get back." The four boys, with promise of good dinner and money in their pockets, scurried off to do Mrs. Holmes bidding.

The Baker Street Irregulars were a group of rowdy children ranging in age from eight to eighteen, boy and girl alike. They had been shocked to learn that Sherlock Holmes, the odd gentleman who looked after them, had gotten married, but loyalty to Holmes meant loyalty to the missus, and they had decided they liked her very much, especially the younger ones. Mrs. Holmes, who insisted they call her Molly (which none of them ever dared, they had far too much respect for her) often sent out her footman with cups of tea for them, and every Sunday they gathered by the rear entrance for parcels of food to be passed around. Usually it was Sunday roast. She seemed to have taken it upon herself to keep them well-fed, while her husband made sure they stayed his eyes and ears about London, giving them assistance when they needed, keeping their pockets lined with enough for them to keep shoes on their feet, and coats on their backs. He made certain too, that they not find employment in factories. The Irregulars were clever, sure-footed and knew London better than any cop on the beat. To work in a factory meant a short life, and probably being housed in an orphanage. To work for Sherlock Holmes meant safety, and they all were terribly grateful to the gentleman and his wife. Now it seemed there was a new addition to Baker Street, and word spread amongst the Irregulars that they would be looking after a man called Doctor Watson. The foursome went off to Spitalfields to collect the Doctor's effects while Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson headed off to do a bit of sleuthing.

Time would only tell how the pair of them would get on and if indeed, the good Doctor was up to the challenge.

* * *

 _This was an absolute bear to upload, I'm sorry it took so long. fanfiction . net is being a dork and saying I have the wrong file extension (surprise, surprise, I DON'T. So I had to email the file to myself, copy/paste it, and then delete every single line of code that copied into the text. Needless to say I'm pissed, but I'm glad the chapter FINALLY posted. I just wish it'd been worth all the trouble. Ugh. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy. There will be more coming. Thank you very much for reading!_


	3. Something's Gotta Give

_Trigger Warning: discussion of drugs, dealing with withdrawals. Also lotta angst_

* * *

Surprisingly, or at least to Watson it was, John settled fairly quickly into the chaotic life at 221b Baker Street. If Sherlock Holmes' behavior was at all disturbing, Watson seemed to take it all in stride. Within months of moving in, it became common-place for Watson, as soon as he got up, to search the house and see what predicament Holmes had invariably gotten himself into (and usually to scold him for performing some ridiculous experiment and making more work for Mrs. Hudson). He barely saw anything of Molly except in the mornings when, having found and scolded Sherlock, set out for a short walk up and down Baker Street. By the time he returned, Molly had taken her breakfast and was off to class. Sherlock, for his part, took no note of his wife's comings or goings excepting when he had need to speak with her (which, Watson noted, was not very often, perhaps twice every fortnight). She was an afterthought, and Watson found himself quite forgetting she even lived there, he saw so little of her.

Molly, for her part, immersed herself in medical school, happily throwing herself into the weary work, glad to have the time now to study. There was always the fear in the back of her mind that Sherlock would go and do something foolish again. It was a constant worry she somehow managed to suppress during the first few months that Doctor Watson had moved into Baker Street. She kept out of his way, and he returned the favor. Not that he was a particularly gruff fellow, but he struck her as the sort who did not approve of women doing the work of men, and she'd have rather kept on his good side than aggravate him. Especially when he was tasked with the burden of minding her husband.

If Sherlock noticed her exacerbated absence, he made no mention of it. Indeed, she heard him speaking to Watson once that he supposed she was in the country! The country indeed! His words, coupled with the fact that he simply took no notice of her, still stung, but Molly forged ahead, pouring her energy into studying and keeping up with the courses set out for her. Life, while not particularly happy, was at least busy, and had its own small pleasures that she savored. She kept to herself, kept to her rooms, avoiding the men of the house as if she were sneaking about, as if she did not truly belong there. There was no hint of a woman's presence in Baker Street, which seemed to be how the men liked it. If it kept the peace, Molly was satisfied, despite her feelings of being left out of her own house.

Mycroft did not make an appearance for the first three months, though he kept tabs on Molly's progress in class and Sherlock's routes about London. When he did finally drop by Baker Street, Watson seemed surprised.

"You!"

"Indeed," Mycroft handed his hat over to Mrs. Hudson, along with his gloves and umbrella.

"You're the one who suggested I rent here!"

"So I am," Mycroft agreed. "Is my little brother in, Doctor Watson, or is he out and about oiling his line of Irregulars?"

Watson, for a moment, was befuddled.

Molly, who had heard the exchange from the stairway, made an appearance. Reaching for Mycroft, she smiled a familial smile, one, Watson noted, that reached her eyes. She looked as if she had not smiled in such a long while, and Watson, while confused as to the stranger now standing in the hallway of Baker Street, suddenly found him wondering if he had ever seen Molly smile in the past months that he had lived there.

"How is my sister in-law?" Mycroft asked, bending to kiss her proffered cheek.

"Well as to be expected. Sherlock is in the parlor, working away on another case. I'd advise you to be brief," Molly said, showing him into the parlor. "He's mad as a hornets nest."

"Hmm," Mycroft nodded.

"Oh," Molly looked between her brother in-law to Doctor Watson. "Doctor Watson, this is Mycroft Holmes, my brother in-law, I had thought you two had already met."

"Yes, but we had not been properly introduced," Watson stuck out his hand, to which Mycroft looked at it with some bit of disdain.

"No." Was all the taller gentleman said.

"He doesn't," Molly interjected. "At least not having just come from the street."

"Far too many germs. Too few Londoners do now know how to wash properly," Mycroft went on into the parlor without another word as Watson frowned at his own hand, looking as if he felt he ought to be insulted, at least on some level.

"He's a good man," Molly said quietly. "He might not strike you as one at first, it's the Holmes way, I'm afraid," she smiled apologetically. "Well, if there is nothing else you need, I have a class this afternoon I must get ready for."

"No, nothing," Watson said, still looking into the parlor, not paying any more attention to Molly.

She shrugged and went on upstairs, glad at least that Sherlock and Mycroft were not bellowing at each other. Life was busy, and Molly was glad for it, but she could not help but feel that she was on the precipice of a terrible decision, and she did not like feeling that some awful thing was about to happen. Whenever she felt this way, something usually did.

 **Some Weeks Later…**

Unfortunately, the feeling in the pit of her stomach proved she'd been right. She returned home one evening quite late to the sound of shouting.

"Answer me, you bleeding idiot! What was it?"

"Deduce me, Watson, you need the practice."

The heavy tones of her husband, the slight slurring of his speech had Molly heaving a tired sigh. She set her things down by the door under the coat rack and pulled off her hat and scarf. She felt her lower lip tremble with the beginnings of a hysterical, exhaustive bout of sobbing she desperately wanted to give way to. She was so awfully tired of these days. Tired of Sherlock giving up and giving in. Unwilling to change for anyone, not even himself. And there she was, ready to pick up the pieces and sort him out and get him back on his feet as if she were put in the house just for that purpose. If he would not change, then something else would have to.

Watson, having heard the door, muttered: "You wait there, and don't you dare move!" he appeared, looking quite stormy, coming to stand before Molly in the hallway, hands on his hips. "Your husband has taken something."

She only nodded, looking absolutely enervated. "Morphia or cocaine?"

Watson goggled at her, clearly shocked. "You knew he-"

"Was it morphia or cocaine, Doctor Watson?" Molly persisted, unbuttoning her cuffs, she rolled her sleeves up. "Time is of the essence if it is cocaine. While methodical in his intake with morphia, my husband often forgets how much in-between doses of cocaine, his highs are not the same."

"I am uncertain, he will not tell me," Watson replied.

"What, in your medical profession, would you say he took?" Molly asked. "Is there a strap by the table? He puts away his needles, but he always forgets the strap, if it was morphia. If it was cocaine, there won't be a trace, he's always careful."

"Cocaine would suggest a manic state-"

"My husband takes either to…" Molly sighed heavily again. "It calms his mental state, or so he says. The usual effects of cocaine do not appear in him. Only when he has withdrawals." She made to enter the parlor, but Watson quickly stepped in front of her.

"Perhaps you should-"

"He won't deal with anyone but me when he's in this state," Molly replied, pushing past him.

In the parlor, the window curtains had been thrown open, so Molly went straight away and shut them. Sherlock, for his part, blinked owlishly at her in the dim light.

"Molly…where have you been?"

"Out,"

"No, silly woman, I mean this week…month…thing…" he waggled his fingers, trying to think of the correct word.

"I've been here," Molly answered, tugging him to an upright position, placing a pillow behind his back to make him sit up. "Come on," she picked up the newspapers and books scattered across the coffee table, careful not to disturb the order they were in, and seated herself across from him. "Now, Sherlock, listen to me, look at me," fingers under his chin, she forced him to turn towards her. Glassy eyes stared back. "What did you take?"

He reached forward, fingering the curls at the nape of her neck. "Your hair today, s'pretty," he murmured.

She batted his hand away. "Stop it. Tell me what you took."

He looked at her somberly. "You're upset."

"Yes," she answered, (Watson was astonished at her calmness). "Now tell me what you took."

He looked at her, the wheels of his mind slowly turning, and a smile spread across his face. "You guess."

Watson, arms folded across his chest, looked just about ready to punch Holmes. "Sherlock Holmes, you do this to yourself, and then force your poor wife to-"

"She's used to it, Watson, now shut up!" Sherlock barked irritably, then faced Molly again. "If I am here, Mrs. Holmes, what might you deduce that I took? Obviously I acquired it myself-"

"You can acquire any number of things for yourself," Molly interrupted him. "Doctors hand morphia and cocaine out in medicinal form as if it were sweets,"

Watson looked affronted, but glanced at his medical bag in the corner. He had, at one time, wondered why Mrs. Holmes did not keep medicines of any sort in the house, indeed if one had a headache or any sort of ailment in 221b Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson would be sent off to find some herbal remedy, rather than a good English Doctor and the bottles of medicine or powders.

"It depends entirely upon the grade you felt you required, the amount, and what you were craving this time," Molly studied her husband. She took his hands in hers, looking carefully at his neatly trimmed nails, then turned his hands over, pushed up his sleeves and looked for the mark a strap would have left, and a mark of a needle. Finding none on either arm, she looked at him, then turned to Watson. "Cocaine, by powder form I think. He's talkative, he isn't usually so on morphia. Cocaine leaves him with most of his senses intact, just slowed down somewhat." Taking a seat by her husband, she put his arm around her neck, getting him to his feet. "We'll need a bowl of warm water, and a bowl of cool water, and clean flannels for both. Can you start a fire?"

Watson, somewhat taken aback that this quiet woman was suddenly giving him orders, did not know what to say at first. "Yes," he answered at last. "Yes I can, shall I put one up here?" he moved to the parlor fireplace, but Molly shook her head.

"No, my husband's room, he'll have withdrawals soon enough, cocaine does not seem to bring him quite as high, and they never last long. How long has he been like this?"

"Most of the day I suppose, I had not noticed something was wrong until I realized it was past four and he had not stirred," Watson took Holmes other arm, helping Molly bring him upstairs.

"Took sometime in the mid-morning then," Molly said, half to herself. "Has the case not been going well?"

"He hasn't had any cases," Watson replied, getting the door to the room open. "He finished up whatever case that Inspector gave him to tinker with days ago."

"And you never thought he might require something else to do?!" Molly cried, having deposited her husband onto the bed.

"I didn't know he got like this!" Watson shouted in reply. He quickly lowered his head. "I'm sorry," he had the decency to look ashamed, though still quite angry. "When I was offered a room to rent here, I did not realize the master of the house was a drug addict."

Molly, arms folded across her middle, chewed on her bottom lip. "Very well then," she went to the basin where Mrs. Hudson had delivered a jug of warm water. She washed her hands, then dried them on a towel. "If you are unhappy here, we will not hold you to your lease. You are of course free to go at any time."

"Mollyyyy…" Sherlock croaked from the bed, half on his side, facing the opposite wall.

She crossed the room, seating herself beside him. She looked to Watson. "I trust you won't speak of this to anyone."

Watson did not know what to say at first, he certainly had not expected Mrs. Holmes to offer him notice, and yet he did not blame her. There was a knock on the door, startling him from his thoughts. Mrs. Hudson was there with a large tray, two bowls of water, one steaming hot, both with flannels draped over the sides. Without another thought, Watson took the tray from the elderly woman and requested she shut the door when she left.

Setting the tray on the bedside table, he removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

"Which flannel do you want for him first?" he asked.

Molly looked at him with some surprise, then the bowls of water. "The warm first, please, I'll wash his face while his temperature is still somewhat normal. As it elevates, we'll treat him as we would a patient with a fever: cool flannels on his forehead-"

"And a roaring fire to sweat it out," Watson finished with a nod. He handed her the warm washcloth and then set to work starting a fire. As he gently blew the embers, encouraging them to catch hold of the kindling, he marveled at the strength of Molly Holmes. Here was a quiet, determined woman who would not sit idly by. There was sorrow within her past, he was sure of it, and yet she did not seem to let it swallow her up. She moved staunchly onward, and he admired her for it.

Slowly, Sherlock's high wore off, and his moods quickly moved from irritably demanding more of anything to take, fury at Watson and Molly's flat refusal, and finally sullen resignation. The tremors did not begin until after midnight when there was nothing to be done for him but keep him warm and ply him with water.

"You know the after-effects of cocaine, I wonder at your ever deciding this is not worth the high."

"Forgot, obviously," Sherlock grunted, deathly pale, drenched in cold-sweat. "Molly, do promise me you'll remind me."

"Since when have you ever made public when you were about to use anything?" Molly replied. "Let alone to me?" she wiped her husband's face. "I'm only ever called for the aftermath." She was quiet a moment. "That's what I'm good for, Sherlock. Cleaning up in your wake. It's a wonder you didn't keep me as a maid rather than a wife. Might have saved you a good deal of trouble."

Sherlock, despite feeling abominable in the truest sense of the word, looked with alarm at his wife. There was a bitterness to her words, a sharpness in her tongue he had not known her to be capable of. Yet thinking on his past actions, he did not blame her for saying what she felt.

"No," was all he managed to say, he made to take her hand and she let him, though she did not smile, nor did she take any pleasure in his touch. "What can I do?" he asked softly. "What will you have me do?"

Molly knew these rare moments of sincerity, almost always during withdrawals, always ready and willing to do something to please her. She often ignored him at these instances, finding she would not and could not change him. Sherlock would have to do that himself. Still, she looked at him now, and without another thought, answered him: "You may forget me, if you wish."

Watson looked over his shoulder from the basin, surprised.

"You never wanted me to begin with," Molly continued. "And I am little more than a burden. Don't call me 'Mrs. Holmes' or 'My Pet' or 'Dearest' anymore."

Sherlock blinked at her, through the haze and pain and feverish delirium, was shocked, a flicker of hurt in his eyes. "What am I to call you then?"

She drew a breath, needing no time to think. "I am Molly Hooper, and I rent my room from you for four shillings a week. You need not refer to yourself anymore as married, should you not wish to, nor will you impress upon me wifely duties any longer. I am your lodger, and you are the landlord. At this moment, I am helping you through a bout of illness. Doctor Watson, your friend, is here as well to assist."

Sherlock did not know what to say. He was confused, weary, still trembling with fever and cold-sweats. He had suddenly got what he once wished so dearly for at the start of his marriage: freedom. But he found the idea of Molly keeping him at arms-length suddenly distasteful. He realized that she would no longer at times crawl into his bed and put her cold knees on his back, nor embrace him when she received particularly pleasing news. Yet, this was what he wanted, wasn't it? And here, she was asking for it as well. She must have truly wanted it as well then.

"Well then, Miss Hooper," he did not miss the clench in her jaw, she was biting the inside of her cheek. His vision blurred somewhat, though he was certain she was blinking too. "I thank you, for your assistance. Doctor Watson can tend to me very well; you needn't trouble yourself on my account."

She woodenly set down the flannels, smoothed her skirt, and turned to Doctor Watson. "Mr. Holmes should be looked after for the next day and a half. He'll sleep most of tomorrow, more than likely. He should be woken up by luncheon, and given something fortifying to eat, something hot and filling, not just a sandwich, and a strong cup of tea, though he'll demand coffee. If he demands coffee from you, and Mrs. Hudson is not to be found, he takes it black, with three sugars, tea with cream, plain. He will need cases, Doctor Watson, continually. If he's to be kept from this, he will need to keep his mind busy, the seasons do not matter, as long as there is something to keep him from becoming bored to the point of using. I trust now you'll look for the signs."

"If I need anything, I'll know who to ask," Watson answered quietly, meaning her.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson is quite adept at knowing what Mr. Holmes needs," Molly replied.

Watson shook his head. "No I meant-"

"Goodnight, Doctor Watson, goodnight Mr. Holmes, I trust you will be back to your usual self in the morning." With that she gathered her skirts and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Every step up to her own room she felt her resolve bending. She was mad, absolutely mad! A woman must be mad, to give up a husband, any husband. Molly knew herself, knew her limitations, and this last instance was too much to bear. She was tired of it. Shutting the door of her room, she went quietly to her desk and set about writing a short note.

Creeping out of her room once more, she moved swiftly past Sherlock's room, hearing only muffled voices, noises really, as if someone within was quietly weeping. She shook her head, deciding her ears were playing tricks on her.

Finding an Irregular was no tricky thing, indeed there was usually one lingering around the kitchen steps of 221b. Molly called down: "Hello, there,"

In a moment, a teenage boy appeared. Seeing it was Molly, he quickly removed his cap, revealing his bright red hair.

"Hello missus," he said. "Anything the matter?"

"No nothing, Henry," Molly shook her head. "I am not a 'missus' any longer, will you please inform the Irregulars that I am 'Miss Hooper' now?" The boy stared at her with a critical eye, Molly knew well enough when she was being deduced. At the moment, she could not bring herself to care. "Will you deliver this to Mr. Holmes, the elder?"

"Yes…Miss," he replaced his cap, taking the note and waited for her to retreat into the house before setting off at a steady jog. No matter what Miss Hooper said, something was most certainly amiss at 221b Baker Street.


	4. A Surprise In the Parlor

_Sorry this is so late in coming, I promise I am working on my fics. I'm just dealing with a lot right now, and finding the time and energy to write is hard. Don't give up on me! Or Sherlock and Molly, for that matter!_

* * *

If Holmes was disturbed by his wife's initiated separation, he hid it very well. Watson could not see his friend being truly disturbed by it, as the man rarely paid any attention to his wife to begin with. Molly seemed to ease into the role of lodger with no trouble at all, coming and going as she pleased. Indeed, things were much the same as before, only now if Watson happened upon the young lady in the house, he had to remember she was no longer Mrs. Holmes, but, at her insistence, 'Miss Hooper', especially now that she was going about as a single woman. Watson took it upon himself to ask the young woman if she would be behaving in all aspects as a woman free of claim, to which he was soundly struck across the cheek. He supposed he deserved that, and refrained from telling Holmes of the incident, as he was not quite certain what the Consulting Detective would do. On one hand, Holmes seemed to take the change in stride, yet if an ill word was spoken of Miss Hooper, there seemed to be fire in the man's eyes, and a visible twitch in his cheek would appear, as if he were holding back a maelstrom of curses.

Still, Watson noticed changes in his friend, the greatest seemed to be of Holmes sudden indifference to his drug habits. He had been given to understand from Miss Hooper that Holmes partook of some form or the other at least on a monthly basis, yet, since their separation, Holmes seemed to put his fondness for finding a new high behind him, or at least to the side. He often joked of finding 'a perfect solution' with a wink and a glance at an empty box on the mantle. Upon opening it, Watson found only the blue silk lining, the indent where a syringe and a small bottle once lay.

"Poured out, man," Holmes said with a flourish of his bow, though his expression was somber.

Watson said nothing of this, only attributing perhaps this clean sweep to Miss Hooper's separation, and the fact that Scotland Yard was often calling fortnightly to 221b Baker Street. In-between these cases, clients were on the bell weekly. Some cases, Holmes turned his nose up at,

"Far too dull, please, an idiot could solve it." Was often the response.

Watson did have to scold his friend from revealing perhaps too much of the potential client's history, especially in front of an unassuming spouse. One husband, having had his affair brought to the light in front of his wife, spluttered that all men stray now and then. Holmes narrowed his gaze at the offending man.

"Only the insecure ones, sir," with that he nodded to the door. "I think you can show yourselves out." With that, he gave his sympathies to the wife and then disappeared upstairs.

Months passed, and Watson recorded the cases they took, happily publishing them, savoring the small embellishments he put in, though he balked at growing a mustache when the hired illustrator insisted it looked more distinguished.

"Thanks, but no," Watson chortled. Throughout the following year, they enjoyed tremendous success, Holmes and Watson were swiftly becoming household names due to their success with Scotland Yard and the ability to solve the plight of the everyday man. Through it all, Miss Hooper remained quietly in the background, slipping out in the early hours to get to her classes or nicking the plate of food Mrs. Hudson always left in the warming oven for her.

She kept in contact with Mycroft Holmes, she seemed to enjoy the elder Holmes company. He always greeted her with a kiss to her cheek, and took her arm if they walked. Some might have speculated that perhaps Miss Hooper had married the wrong Holmes, but those closest knew that the affection between the pair of them was the familial sort: Molly was the sister Mycroft had always hoped to have. Besides, he was quietly courting a beautiful actress, Anthea Whittaker, and was well on his way to proposing to her. Molly, for her part, was particularly fond of Anthea, and found a good companion in her. Mycroft was pleased his sister in-law (for to him, she and Sherlock were still married, no matter what declared separation was between them) approved of his wife-to-be.

"How are you getting on?" Mycroft asked one afternoon.

"Well enough, my classes are wending down, graduation isn't far off, and Doctor Stamford has already put in a good word for me at St. Barts, they're in such dire straights for a proper morgue attendant, even a woman will do."

Mycroft smirked at this. "That is good to hear, but you know very well I was not inquiring of your scholastic career, as I am well aware of how you are faring."

Molly lowered her head, concentrating on where her feet were taking her. "I don't know what you want me to say to that." She shrugged, uncomfortable. "Am I happy? Yes, and no. I am happy that Sherlock has been clean for so long…clearly I was not what he needed, and…if that be the case, if Doctor Watson is what he needs to remain free of cocaine or morphia…so be it."

"He needs you as well, you know," Mycroft replied quietly. "Watson cannot take your place, you are my brother's wife, and nothing will change that."

Molly smiled bitter-sweetly. "I read the papers, brother-mine, I know what people are saying about this 'Woman' Sherlock has taken on."

"For a case, I assure you," Mycroft insisted.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Molly shrugged. "I did request a separation, I requested that I be treated as little more than a stranger in my own house, who am I to be insulted or offended if Sherlock takes interest in another woman-"

"Stop right there," Mycroft insisted. "Don't say any more or you'll regret it."

Molly, unused to such firmness in her brother in-law directed at her, shut her mouth, surprised.

"I do not know all of my brother's intentions, but I know his methods, and I know that he would never go against you." By now, they had arrived at Baker Street. Mycroft waited as she fished her key from her purse.

Glancing up at him through her lashes, she sighed heavily. "Perhaps not, I am human, and I may as well admit I am jealous. Her photograph is a flattering one."

"Flattering in the scandalous sense," Mycroft added dryly. "I'd mind your step if you happen upon her, she is not to be trusted." With that he bent and pressed her cheek as was his custom and waited at the door of his coach for her to step inside 221b before climbing up.

Molly put aside her hat and gloves, hanging them up by the door. Sifting through the waiting pile of mail, she found several letters stamped 'urgent' with Sherlock's name on them. Knowing he'd never get to the post for another day or two, and seeing the address was from her brother in-law's secretary, she decided to bring them through to the parlor.

Pushing aside the curtain, she knocked on the door frame before entering.  
"Mr. Holmes, there's some post for you marked urgent and I…" her words died away as she looked at the occupants of the room.

Rather than her husband in his usual place by the fire, Watson at the roll top desk, both men sat on the sofa, facing a decidedly nude woman with ebony hair and piercing eyes. Everyone turned to face her, and for the smallest of moments, Molly wanted to turn and run.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were entertaining," she said softly, quite angry that she sounded so very weak at that moment. Fury welled in her heart at this presumptuous woman, and too at Sherlock for sitting idly by! Had he invited this…this…harlot into 221b?! To be fair, Watson looked to be nothing less than embarrassed, and trying his hardest to keep his gaze well above the woman's neckline.

"Oh do stay, we're all getting acquainted," the woman said.

"Thank you just the same, Miss Adler," Molly replied tightly. She missed the proud twinkle in Sherlock's eyes, and the fact that his gaze had shifted from The Woman to her as soon as she entered the room. "I have much more important things to do with my time than debase myself in front of men,"

Watson coughed, still red in the face, embarrassed. Sherlock shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. It was then that Molly realized that they were on the sofa not of their will. Perhaps Miss Adler was armed. If that were the case, Molly would have to think, and fast.

"Do carry on with…whatever it is you're doing," Molly said, appearing quite calm. "I just had some mail to deliver to Mr. Holmes." She placed it on his violin case and swiftly left the room before anyone could stop her.

"What a delightful creature," Miss Adler said. "Is she your live-in?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "She's a lodger, also she's my wife, but we won't go into that just yet."

"Pity, I'm rather curious as to why such a delectable little thing like you would be married to such a prim and proper miss," Irene shrugged.

"For God's sake, will you please cover yourself," Watson spluttered, having had quite enough. "There's a dressing gown just over there! If you wanted to hold us hostage, I doubt very much you needed to be nude to do so!"

"One likes to keep one's victims utterly perplexed," Irene replied, but she took the dressing gown all the same, shrugging into it, keeping the gun she'd hidden when Molly arrived trained on them. "Admit it, Mr. Holmes, if that little woman really is your wife, she must be a terribly boring one. You need some excitement-"

The click of a gun being cocked interrupted Miss Adler, and once again, all heads turned to the doorway where Molly stood toting a rifle nearly as tall as she was (a Winchester rifle, an odd gift Sherlock had received from a terribly grateful American client).

"Boring I may be, but prim and proper I most certainly am not, Miss Adler," Molly spoke up. "I wonder if you'd do me a personal favor and put that little trinket down before you hurt someone."

"I could hardly miss from this range," Miss Adler replied smoothly.

Molly swung the barrel of the rifle up, pointing it at Miss Adler. "Nor could I. I am sure that if you shot either of them, they'd come off with a scar or two, I can't promise the same if I shot you."

Miss Adler narrowed her gaze at Molly. "I think you're bluffing."

Aiming the gun just to the left of Miss Adler, Molly squeezed the trigger, and a terrific _'crack'_ that nearly deafened them all was heard. The gun jerked back hard against Molly's shoulder, but the result was that the vase on the mantle was in pieces, and Miss Adler was putting down her pistol as Molly cocked it again.

"I know when I'm not wanted," Miss Adler said, she sidled over to the far window. "I'll see myself out," as she passed by the sofa, her hand trailed over Sherlock's neck and shoulders. "Don't be a stranger, Sherlock, I'll be in touch, and do remember my offer for dinner still stands," she bent, her mouth very close to his ear, though she spoke loud enough for everyone to hear: "Just let me know when you'd like a bite." With that she straightened, taking up a fur coat that had been tossed over the chair by the open window, and, to Molly's surprise, slipped out into the window boxes, donned the coat, and went on down the sidewalk as if it were an everyday occurrence.

"Molly-"

She lowered the hammer onto an empty chamber, setting the butt of the rifle to the floor with a muffled 'thump'. "Mr. Holmes, in the future, I would suggest you carry around some form of weapon to protect yourself in these instances. Your martial skills, while impressive, would hardly compete with a gun, no matter how pathetic it looks," she glanced at the small pearl-handled pistol, a lady's weapon, as it could fit in a handbag.

"Molly I did not ask her to come, and certainly not in such a state."

"It is no business of mine who you keep about for entertainment," Molly replied. She handed the gun to Watson, who, removing his hands from his pockets, took it, murmuring his thanks to her. He glanced between Holmes and Molly, then coughed, muttering something about putting the gun up.

"All the same," Sherlock said, once Watson was gone. "I think it is important for you to know: I am not pursuing Miss Adler." He fidgeted his hands, something Molly rarely ever saw him do. He was always sure of himself. When she finally looked up at him, she was surprised to see him looking at her with such intensity, such admiration, she lost her words for a moment.

"I am graduating soon," she blurted out, deciding a change of subject was best.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Yes I know."

"Do you?"

He nodded, still looking at her with that same intensity. He seemed to be distracted, as if unable to find words.

"Well…" she shifted for a moment, growing quite flushed under his gaze. "I-if you want to come, you are more than welcome. I'll see that invitations are sent."

"Invitations?" Watson asked, hearing her use the plural of the word. He was on the stairs, returning from putting back the gun.

"Yes," Molly said, (Sherlock noted the forced brightness in her voice) "I am graduating soon, and I have invited you and Mr. Holmes, and Mrs. Hudson to come and stand in as my family as I haven't…that…is…" she looked embarrassed suddenly. "Not that we are all a family…we are more just lodgers in the same building but you're the only ones I know and-"

"I should be delighted to come," Watson replied gently, seeing her distress, and wanting very much to sooth it. He was not used to seeing Miss Hooper so vulnerable. He was a man, after all, and did not like to see women distressed, nor indeed, one who had just saved his life. "We both will, won't we, Holmes?"

"I should be honored," Sherlock replied, having kept his gaze upon her all the while.

"Yes…well…" Molly glanced between them. "I'll make sure your names are on my list." She rubbed her shoulder, feeling the soreness from when the gun had kicked back.

"Are you hurt?' Watson asked, stepping forward. "The gun was quite powerful, it is a wonder you didn't dislocate your shoulder; shall I look?"

"No," Molly moved out of his reach, still rubbing her shoulder. "It's only sore, I assure you." She dared one last look at Sherlock, who was still looking after her, before she ducked her head, hurrying upstairs.

"That was something," Watson said finally, once the door to her room had shut behind her. "Who would have guessed she was such a crack-shot?"

"Oh Watson," Holmes sighed heavily. "Am I a great fool?"

"What?" Watson looked baffled. "About what, man?"

"Everything." Sherlock was still gazing up the stairway. After a moment, he shook his head, disappearing into the parlor once more. Moving aside the mail Molly had left for him, he picked up his violin. Try as Watson might, Sherlock would not be persuaded to stop playing, even into the wee hours of morning. The Consulting Detective had much to think about. What his friend's thoughts rested so heavily on, Watson could not say for certain, but he could guess they revolved around a certain young woman who was residing at 221b Baker Street.


	5. Let the Games Begin

It was no easy thing, putting that incident in the parlor behind her, after all, Molly was still very much in love with Sherlock. She could not help how she felt, but she could do her best not to dwell on it. It still hurt a great deal that he had remained clean for so long, and it was, in a sense, due to her leaving. What else could it be, after all? Indeed, even from afar, she had watched his actions, studied his demeanor, and had not seen any of the signs of his using. Sherlock appeared…happy. Perhaps it was all he'd ever wanted. Molly, again, decided not to dwell on it. Yet, she still felt her role in Baker Street was a useless one, as if she were in the way. Mycroft, at her mentioning perhaps finding lodging elsewhere, gently reminded her that she would only be getting most likely a small, windowless garret on the east end.

"Press on as you are," he urged her. "If it becomes impossible for you, then I shall see what I can find."

Molly agreed, for the time being.

The date of her graduation was fast approaching, and she was looking forward to it, especially as her days were filled with filling out the necessary paperwork and shadowing Doctor Stamford to prepare her for working at St. Barts. More than ever, she felt she had purpose again, despite her inclination to feel some piece of her was missing. She pressed on, being as absorbed in her work as she possibly could.

Sherlock, to all outward appearances, did not appear at all to miss his wife. He went on from day to day as if the incident had never happened. He solved cases, littering the parlor with his papers and books, and neglecting himself as he often did. The only change being he did not disappear days at a time to partake of some particular substance or another. He was, to the public eye, a strange, perhaps ungentlemanly, but ultimately good, sort of fellow.

In truth, Sherlock was terribly good at pushing that wretched night to the back of his mind. There were times though when even his strong-willed nature could no longer avoid it, and he would recollect in its entirety that awful, awful night. He had felt shame before, whenever Molly had found him in some drug den or another. That night had been particularly poignant. He noted the distinct difference in her weariness. She was exhausted, she was sick of his missteps, of his follies. She needed a reprieve. So when she asked him to forget her, he agreed immediately. He had not realized how very impossible it was. He had taken for granted her presence in his life, until she was barely in it. True, he went days without seeing her before, but it was always with the understanding that when he did go home, she would be there. Molly was dependable, she was affectionate, she was warm and kind, traits Sherlock had not assumed anyone outside his family would practice upon him. He had not wanted to be married, but he had grown accustomed and comfortable in his life with Molly. He came to appreciate her light touches as she passed him by in the parlor: a hand on his shoulder, or fingers scraping along his neck in a pleasing manner. He missed her presence at night, curled up beside him. He wondered if she did as well. He was aware he had, for a long time, avoided her, did not seek out her company, and made it appear as if he did not want her. There were also times he allowed himself to seek her out, (usually in the dark of the night, when one would expect a husband to go to his wife). He had thought, perhaps, that her having a child would give her something to do, how wrong he'd been! No simple wifely duties for Molly Hooper-Holmes! Sherlock was proud, vastly proud, that Molly was attending medical school, prouder still that she was pursuing such a grisly major as pathology. Sneaking through her room to peek at her notebooks, he realized how terribly brilliant his wife was! How marvelously clever, no, the word was too small for such a woman, indeed was there a word that could encompass her? His heart swelled with pride at his wife.

Yet not his wife, not now. Would he ever call her that again? Had he mucked everything up terribly? There were times she looked at him that made him wonder if there was still a chance for him. He dared entertain such a thought, that is until Molly came in on Miss Adler in the nude, holding them hostage. He saw the rage in Molly's eyes, and felt his face grow hot with shame, with worry that Molly had a different idea of what Miss Adler was doing there.

For the first time, Sherlock insisted upon his innocence to Molly, promising that he had not asked Miss Adler over, and certainly not in such a state. He wanted her to believe him, was desperate to have her believe him. She seemed mistrustful, and as much as it hurt him, he could not blame her. What cause had he given her to believe in him?

A hand touched his arm, shaking him from his thoughts.

"Holmes, train has stopped."

He unfolded his arms from his person, straightening. "What? Where are we?"

"About an hour from London, something wrong with the train, delay for something, they won't say."

"What?! When will we get going again?" Sherlock opened the window, leaning out to try and see ahead.

Watson settled back in, shaking open the paper again. "Probably not for some time- where are you going?"

"To get a horse!" Sherlock stormed out of the train carriage to find a porter.

Watson followed, nearly knocking over a woman in the process. "I beg your pardon," he tipped his hat, then turned, hurrying after his friend. "What for?"

"We'll be late!"

Watson paused with a frown. Late for what?

"Are you coming or not, Watson?" Holmes called over his shoulder. "We promised to be there!"

They had been gone for over two weeks in the country on a thrilling case. Holmes was clearly beginning to show signs of exhaustion, and Watson had left him to his own devices believing him to be asleep on the journey to London. Now though, Holmes was shaking off whatever weariness, digging down for any last reserves of strength.

"Be where?"

"Molly's graduating today!" Holmes barked, handing a man some money, pointing out two mounts.

"Bollocks I'd forgotten entirely! We'll never make it in time to dress for that, and anyway, what am I to do with this?" Watson held up a hatbox containing the head of a nun (Watson dearly wished it wasn't so, and did not like to leave it behind for some unsuspecting porter to inspect).

"Take it with us of course, or ship it back to Baker Street. I'm riding ahead." Holmes mounted up as he spoke, nudging the horse around towards the road.

"Miss Hooper will understand if you can't make it, Holmes, surely. Think of the state you'll be in when you get there!"

"Nonsense, I promised, so I shall be there." With that, Holmes clicked his tongue, urging the horse forward into a steady canter.

 **Great Hall of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London**

The weather had rendered the decorations in the courtyard to a soggy mess. Quick work was made to collect the chairs and bring them into the great hall instead. Molly, seated among her classmates, craned her neck to see among the crowd behind her, searching the mass of people for familiar faces. She worried her hands in her lap, fidgeted with her program, ultimately decided that Sherlock and Doctor Watson had forgotten. Of course they would. Why should they remember? The case they were working on was a terribly long one. They'd been gone for weeks without any word as to when they'd be returning.

A sudden burst of applause startled her, and she lifted her hands from her lap, joining in, turning her attention to the group of women all gathered, freshly starched nurses' caps adorning their heads, gold and silver pins glittering in the lamplight.

Then followed more speeches, and Molly did her best to pay attention, twisting her papers in her lap. She tried very hard not to feel her hopes being dashed as the afternoon wore on, still no sign of Sherlock. Somewhere in the crowd, she was sure Mycroft and Miss Anthea Whittaker were there, they had promised to attend, but they had not sought her out beforehand, and Molly felt quite alone. Names were being called, and slowly, freshly graduated students went up to receive their diploma and pin. She stared hard at her black robes trimmed in white, listening as her peers took the Hippocratic Oath, desperately hoping no one could hear her heart.

Her name was called and she felt herself stand, moving towards the podium. She focused on the task at hand, realizing the past two years struggles had all led up to this moment. She had accomplished something marvelous, and soon would be taking up a post most men in the world did not relish, a post she not only had the stomach for, but one she enjoyed as well. She accepted her diplomas, blushing at the thumping of boots stamping and cheers from her classmates, classmates that had, at one time, mocked her for being the only woman in her field, the only woman, indeed, in any of her classes. She was somewhat comforted, knowing she had their support now, even if the person she wanted most was not there. A small nosegay of white hollyhocks and ginger was presented to her by Doctor Stamford along with her papers and pin. He'd wanted her to be valedictorian, and she might have been, but the honor had gone to someone else. Molly assumed it was because the idea of a female valedictorian was still distasteful in the eyes of the Hospital Board. But she accepted the flowers graciously, thanking the doctor for his kind thoughts.

Afterwards, the newly graduated went in among the crowds, finding their family members. For a time, Molly stood, clutching her nosegay and diplomas, scanning the crowds for a face she might recognize.

"There she is," she heard someone say and turned, smiling with some relief when she caught sight of Mycroft, Miss Whittaker on his arm.

"Hello!" she went to them and Mycroft bent, kissing her cheek. Miss Whittaker handed her another nosegay of apple blossoms and edelweiss, with a single cherry blossom among them all. She accepted their congratulations and invitation to luncheon. Mycroft offered his other arm to her, and she took it, smiling her thanks. She accepted the firm handshakes and kindness from the passersby who seemed impressed albeit confused and worried at a female doctor, and she ignored altogether the looks of disdain from those who clearly did not approve.

As they made their way to the waiting carriage, Molly paused just once more to look at the crowds around the entryway when suddenly she heard:

" _Doctor Hooper!"_

The title was still new to her, but she felt herself swell somewhat with pride, and was assaulted with the bittersweet memories of her father's title, now inherited by her.

A horse was reigned in near their carriage, and Molly was shocked to see that the rider was none other than Sherlock!

He was out of breath, though this did not impede his long strides, stepping over to greet her. He doffed his hat to her, splattered in mud from the road.

"Good heavens!" Molly gasped. "What has happened?!" She feared the worst, for Doctor Watson was not at his side.

"Nothing at all, only a delay in the train from Dover. We were but an hour from London when the train was stopped. I hired a couple of mounts. Watson is coming presently. Have we missed it?" he looked her over, seeing her shining eyes, the papers in her hands, as well as two nosegays. "Yes…" he murmured, somewhat sadly. "I see I have."

"It doesn't matter," Molly answered quickly. "You tried to come, and that's what counts-"

Mycroft snorted in derision, which Sherlock and Molly both ignored.

A second rider came up to the group and Watson, clearly exhausted, slid down, clutching a hatbox.

"Holmes," the good doctor wheezed. "For God's sake, you'll kill the horse, riding it that way, to say nothing of the integrity of the straps on this wretched box!"

"What's in the box?" Miss Whittaker asked curiously.

"Don't ask." All three men replied.

Watson, having caught his breath, stretched out his hand to Molly, seeing her in cap and gown. "My congratulations Doctor Hooper. It's a hard business, I don't know as a woman will have a head for it, but I believe you'll have your work cut out for you."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the statement, as did Sherlock, but Molly only smiled graciously.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson. I am looking forward to teaching my peers a thing or two about pathology. Who knows, my sex is referred to as the perceptive ones, perhaps I shall be teaching you one day." Her eyes twinkled with mischief and teasing.

Sherlock grinned, thoroughly amused as Mycroft and Anthea covered their mouths, hiding their smirks. Watson had the decency to smile, accepting the gentle rebuke.

"My brother in-law is taking me to luncheon," Molly said at last, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled.

"I hope it is to your liking," Holmes said.

"Oh yes," Molly nodded quickly. "Would…would you like to join us? And you of course, Doctor Watson?"

"We should be pleased to," Holmes agreed as Watson nodded, the idea of a proper meal was quite appealing to him after two weeks of cold sandwiches and lukewarm tea.

"We'll go home and change," Watson said.

"For what?" Sherlock asked, finally looking away.

"Holmes…" Watson gave him a look, gesturing to their mud-splattered clothing.

"Go on and change," Molly insisted gently. "I'll be waiting."

Her referral to herself and not the others did not go unnoticed by Sherlock, nor Mycroft. Both studied her carefully, wondering if she meant what she said.

Sherlock did not want to miss a moment, and so he quickly mounted up again, urging Watson to hurry up before ducking back into traffic and racing ahead to Baker Street.

Watson had the forethought to pause and ask: "Where are we dining?"

"The Savoy," Mycroft replied as he handed up Miss Whittaker into the carriage. "I trust you'll convey this information to my brother."

"I shall. See you there." Watson nudged his horse forward at a gentler pace, navigating through the traffic and midday congestion of the streets.

 **The Savoy, London**

Sherlock and Watson were changed in record time, arriving only thirty minutes after the others had arrived. Mycroft had pointedly left the seat nearest Molly vacant, and Anthea kicked Watson in the shin when he made to take the open chair. Holmes took his place beside Molly instead, who murmured her apologies.

"We took the liberty of ordering for you and Doctor Watson, I know how you both are when you're on a case."

"It's a bit early for high tea, but it is a celebration," Mycroft waived his hand. He stood then, holding a glass of champagne, the others followed suit.

"To my sister in-law, who seems bent on rocking this good nation to its core. I do hope you know we are behind you all the way," His smile was gentle. "To our Doctor Hooper."

"To Doctor Hooper," the others echoed.

There was no smile at the table fonder than Sherlock's, nor eyes warmer than Molly's.

"I do hope you'll let me make the next toast," a voice said behind the others and everyone turned to see Miss Adler standing there. "I hope you don't mind my intruding, I saw the party and wanted to see what all the fuss was about." She looked around the table, making a show of observing them as if she did not already know. "Oh I see! We have a new graduate among us!" she plucked Sherock's glass from his hands raising it to Molly. Before she could speak, Anthea opened her mouth:

"My dear Miss Adler, I am afraid this is a private party, I hope you'll forgive our rudeness in asking for you to leave. Another time, perhaps, you'll be asked to make a toast to our Doctor Hooper."

"Certainly," Miss Adler answered quite congenially, setting the glass down. She smiled at them all, congratulating Molly in a most sincere way, and then passing by Sherlock, trailed her hand over his shoulders. Bending low, she murmured in his ear: "I have a message for you, He says the next move is up to you."

A look of alarm crossed Sherlock's features as The Woman sidled away. Molly did not know where to look or what to say. For a moment, there was an awful silence from everyone.

Just in time, the waiter arrived, and Anthea immediately began directing what ought to be placed where, and encouraging conversation from everyone. Soon enough, the awkwardness passed, but Sherlock remained silent, clearly disturbed by The Woman's message. Molly tried to ask him what Irene meant by it, but he would not say. She took it to mean a private matter between the pair of them, and decided not to press it. After all, oughtn't he have secrets with others? She was not tied to him…at least not publicly.

After lunch was eaten and the champagne drunk up, they parted ways, Mycroft quietly asked Molly as the coatroom attendant fetched their things if she truly approved of Anthea.

"Of course I do!" Molly said, quite surprised. "Why? Have you decided to at last do something about it."

"Perhaps," he said, and Molly knew then it was quite definite. She smiled kindly at him, squeezing his hand.

"I hope you'll be very happy, the pair of you, and you'll send me a note, please, when it's all settled?"

"Naturally," Mycroft promised. He glanced at Sherlock, whom Anthea had encouraged from his thoughts, speaking quietly together with Watson. "I hope Miss Adler did not disturb you terribly."

"I don't know what it is about that woman that gives me a sinking feeling," Molly answered. "It's as if she…" here Molly stopped, shaking her head. "There's such a wickedness underneath her that I can't explain. I only met her once before, in terribly odd circumstances, but…"

"Be cautious of her," Mycroft warned. "She knows a good many people in high places, dangerous people."

"She knows Sherlock rather well."

"Not as well as you would think, she's good at sniffing out weaknesses, and sees you as a potential threat."

Molly snorted, recalling very much her last encounter with The Woman. "Yes I would think so."

"Don't give her another thought for today," Mycroft urged. He looked up as the others approached them. "Can we drop you?"

"Not to worry, we'll call a cab," Sherlock replied, and out of habit, grasping Molly's elbow before anyone else could.

"Wait a moment!" Molly insisted, tugging her arm away. Sherlock looked quite hurt, until he saw her go to Anthea, press her cheek, and then the same to Mycroft, thanking them for the luncheon. She returned to his side, but did not take his arm (a forced-upon-herself habit). Sherlock had already hailed a cab, and so he helped her up, bare handed, his fingers brushed against the opening of her glove where the inside of her wrist was revealed. For a moment, the tips of his fingers soothed that spot, and Molly felt her face flush, turning back to him with a start at the affectionate gesture. _'He must not have realized,'_ she told her herself.

The ride back to Baker Street, Sherlock fell silent, back into his thoughts, so Molly and Watson left him alone. She asked the doctor about the case, which he happily described in great detail, then realized aloud, with horror, he had forgotten the hatbox in the hallway where Mrs. Hudson or the footman could easily find it.

"I shouldn't worry, Mrs. Hudson never opens a hatbox, she's learned," Molly said. "You might worry about Jimmy, or the new lad Archie, opening it."

"Hmm." Watson agreed grimly.

"Has anyone answered your advert?" Molly asked, changing the subject. "I saw you requested a nurse."

"A few. One looks particularly promising. I shall interview her the day after tomorrow. I wonder if you would mind sitting in when I do so, to put her more at ease. I shouldn't like to frighten anyone off…you know how Holmes can get at times."

"Especially at any hint of change," Molly nodded. "Yes I believe I can. I have the week off before I start at Bart's."

The cab pulled to a stop outside of Baker Street, Holmes stepped out first, who hurried up to the door. Watson jumped out, ran around, helping Molly down, glancing with some annoyance at his friend's rudeness.

"It's alright, Doctor Watson, he's thinking," Molly excused. She stepped by him as Watson handed up the money to the cab driver.

"No charge mister," the driver called and slapped the reigns. Watson was left holding the money up still, looking after the cabbie with no small degree of befuddlement.

Inside, the hatbox remained untouched, to which Watson expressed relief, scolded Sherlock, and told him to put it down in his laboratory where no one would disturb it.

"I shall, presently," Holmes replied, putting off his coat and hat, holding out his hand without looking. Molly looked back at his empty hand, wondering what on earth he was doing. He waggled his fingers, impatient, and she realized he meant to hang up her things as well, so she quickly unbuttoned her coat and handed it to him.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed, coat and hats hung up.

"I think she's gone out," Molly replied, taking down the note from the corner of the mirror in the parlor. "She left a note, said Archie was called to his family's an emergency of some sort, she went with him."

"Well then where is that atrocious footman?"

"Jimmy, and he isn't either," Molly scolded. "He's just got a passing fancy for the kitchen girl across the street. Anyway it's his day off, and cook's too, I believe."

"Humph."

"You can't possibly be hungry," Watson said, he was putting on his coat again.

"Where are you going?"

"Mrs. Steinbeck on cheapside's is in her confinement, I promised to look in on her when I got back, I may as well now, before it gets dark."

"There are some apples in the kitchen," Molly said. "Bring them to her, fresh fruit would do them some good."

"Thank you," Watson replied, promising he would. He returned in a moment, toting the basket. "I've left the rest on a plate on the table, so Cook won't be upset I took them all. Anything for anyone while I'm out?"

"No, thank you," Molly replied, when Sherlock did not stir from the sofa.

"I'm off then. Messages for me-"

"Will be put on your desk," Molly promised.

Watson chuckled, tapping Molly's chin. "What shall we do without you, Miss Hooper?" he went on his way, and Molly tried very hard to quell the urge to remind him she was a doctor, and his patronizing tone would one day get him a smack across the cheek. Well, there would be time to work on him. She was confident her actions and work could win over the good doctor's respect. After all, thousands of years of ingrained misogyny could not be done away with in only a few months.

Entering the parlor once more, she found Sherlock standing by the fireplace, tuning his violin.

"Do you mind if I read down here?" she asked. He shook his head.

"Not at all,"

For a time, the silence between them was comfortable, and if he was not careful, Sherlock could easily pretend it was exactly the way it used to be between them. Perhaps now they were at last on even ground. Still, even despite the pleasantness between them at this moment, worrying thoughts filled his mind. The Woman's message was disturbing. Of late he had been keeping a mysterious, scattered, correspondence with a Professor Moriarty, a name that several suspects in previous cases had all uttered with a mixture of fear and disdain, mostly fear.

"I was speaking to your brother a few weeks ago," Molly said, interrupting his thoughts.

"What of?" he asked, purely out of habit.

"We were speaking of perhaps my leaving Baker Street,"

Sherlock turned with a start, the violin lowered.

"Leave?!" he echoed.

Slowly, she nodded. "Yes I- well…it's not for certain yet…nothing is, but…well you see with things the way they are, between us, I mean, and now your having company over, spending time with Miss Adler, I mean, well I'm rather in the way…aren't I?" she looked to him for confirmation, as if begging him.

"I do not keep her company," Sherlock said, quite sternly. "I do not keep anyone's company save for the occupants of this house. I should be most troubled at your leaving…" he paused, suddenly realizing that perhaps Molly wanted very much to move away. "I…that is…if you truly want to go I am certain my brother will be all too happy to assist in finding you suitable lodging."

"No of course I don't!" Molly burst out. "I thought I was in the way or-"

"No you're not," Sherlock broke in, almost pleading. "Of course you are not, you cannot leave-" as he spoke both stepped forward. "We- er, I should be very upset. You are as much a part of Baker Street as myself or Watson or Mrs. Hudson-"

"But I'm not…am I?" Molly asked softly.

Sherlock stepped back, quite hurt. "You are," he insisted quietly, resolute.

She opened her mouth to speak, and for the next few moments, Sherlock felt as if the world slowed down: he saw her blink, corresponding to the flash of light outside the parlor windows. He thought perhaps it was lightening at first, until the room shook, and a tremendous 'boom' rattled them to their bones. He flung himself over her, turning her away from the windows, dropping them both to the floor, shielding her from the broken glass.

The next few moments, his eardrums throbbed, everything was muffled, a high-pitched whine making it almost impossible to hear. The room was smoke and ash, and underneath him lay Molly, quite unconscious. He lifted her up, eyes blurry and burning from the smoke, carrying her out to the stoop to the fresh air. Already, in the distance he could hear the fire brigade, and people in the streets were shouting. He looked across the street, seeing the smoldering building. The explosion had come from the house across the street. Baker Street was not terribly wide, and the force of the blast had blown out the windows of 221b- smoke and ash pouring out of the smoldering house, into the broken windows across the way.

Somewhat shell-shocked, but sure he knew who was to blame, Sherlock sat and waited, cradling Molly in his lap. As he looked her over for any wounds, he withdrew his hand from the side of her head, finding blood on his fingertips. It was then that he began to tremble, and he looked wildly through the screaming crowds, scanning them. Across the street was a figure, standing still amid the chaos, they saw him, tipped their hat, and disappeared into the crowds. Sherlock did not move, not wanting to leave Molly as she was, but wanting desperately to go after the madman who had clearly done this.


	6. The Game Is Afoot

When Molly came to, she heard a sigh of relief from someone nearby, after which she realized her head was pounding monstrously.

"Well thank God for that,"

"Doctor Watson?" she frowned, blinking, trying to clear her vision.

"Here," he said, and Molly lifted her head, beginning to sit up. "Not yet," he tutted her. "Slowly," he settled a cushion behind her. "There, better?"

"What happened?" she wanted to know.

"A bomb across the street. Fortunate the building was vacant," Watson said. "I came home to find the parlor windows blown out, Mrs. Hudson in a fit and Holmes muttering something about a professor. Do you know what he's talking about?"

"No," Molly shook her head, wincing as she felt over her forehead to her temples, feeling a tender spot.

"Easy," Watson scolded her. "You've got quite a knock there,"

"I'm sure it looks worse than it is, you know how a scrape on the head will bleed like the dickens," Molly reminded him.

"True enough, but it was still a head injury, perhaps you ought to wait an extra week, before going to work-"

"Doctor Watson, I am not made of glass," Molly snapped, irritated. "For goodness sake, I am able to sit up and speak, I am not one of your great lady patients who can't seem to move without smelling salts! Now, where is Mr. Holmes? The bomb was meant to frighten him, or at least convey a message."

Watson, someone taken aback by her boldness, was silent for a moment. "He's…erm…well he's gone out. I expect he found a clue."

"No, not this early in the game," Molly got to her feet. "It's a case, so he won't be in any of the opium dens, he needs his mind fresh for this one," she began to pace the room, thinking. Watson hovered behind her, ready to catch her if she fell. "Do stop being a mother, if you need something to occupy your hands, you may as well start taking notes!" Molly snapped, then covered her mouth, realizing how terrible she sounded. "I'm sorry, Doctor Watson," she reached for his arm. "Truly, my head aches, and I don't know where Sherlock is,"

"You've had a shock," Watson excused, though her using Holmes given name did stand out to him somewhat.

"That's no reason to forget manners," she insisted. "Thank you, for your attention, truly, but it is unnecessary. I am, on the whole, unharmed, just a little sore and in need of a strong cup of tea," she went to the pull bell and gave it a good tug.

In a few moments, Mrs. Hudson appeared, worrying her hands.

"Mrs. Hudson, is the kitchen still intact?" asked Molly.

"Yes, of course," the housekeeper answered. "The Irregulars are all crowded in at the moment having tea, they heard the noise and won't go until they've heard from Mr. Holmes."

"Mr. Holmes has gone to see his brother," Molly answered. "You may tell them that, keep a few here, no less than four, in case we need to get a message to them, otherwise the rest may be sent on their usual rounds, send them in pairs, I don't want any of them on their own tonight."

"Very good Mrs. Holmes- err," Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth, struggling to cover her blunder.

"And a pot of tea, please," Molly chose not to acknowledge the housekeeper's slip of the tongue, in truth, for that moment, she did feel like mistress of Baker Street again, and she felt all too keenly how much she missed it.

"Do sit down," Watson urged Molly. "For my comfort at least, you were rendered unconscious-"

"Yes I will," Molly waved him off her, but after a moment complied, deciding she needed to, no matter how much her pride protested.

"What makes you think he's gone to his brother?" Watson wanted to know.

"He needs help," Molly clarified. "My brother in-law has the best connections in the country, as well as Europe."

"Hm." Watson uttered, finally seating himself across from Molly. In truth, he was pleased to see that the pathologist's usual ginger was up after such a knock. He'd have been worried had she submitted herself for examination or fainted again. Holmes had been relieved to leave her in his care, and Watson did not relish facing his good friend with a still unconscious Molly on his hands. Whatever feelings Holmes had been hiding, or ignoring for Miss Hooper the past few years had all apparently gone out the window in one evening. When Watson had arrived at Baker Street, Inspector Lestrade was on the scene, as well as ambulance and fire brigade. Amid the chaos Holmes sat with Molly draped over his lap, covering her in a blanket, snapping at everyone.

 _"I would only entrust her to you," Holmes said, once it was safe to go back inside. The Irregulars and a few workmen Mycroft must have sent over made a quick job of boarding up the windows until the next day, when the glass could be replaced. "Some empty-headed doctor at The London would probably write down 'female hysteria' and put her in a sanatorium. Look after her, Watson, take care of her, I am going out, there are questions that need answering."_

 _"I should say so!" Watson agreed. "Who would do such a thing?"_

 _"I have a few leads," Holmes answered. "But there is only one way to be certain. Events are happening, Watson, and I am afraid there is a game we shall be prevailed upon to play, and there is no happy outcome, regardless of if we win or lose."_

 _"We must do our best to win, then," Watson replied quietly. "No matter the outcome."_

 _Holmes studied him then, and Watson was unable to ascertain just what the consulting detective had meant._

 _"Indeed, Watson. I'll be back in an hour." With that, he'd departed, leaving Molly Hooper on the sofa, and Doctor Watson to fumble about for his bag (which he'd dropped on the front step upon arriving at Baker Street)._

"Doctor Watson?"

He looked up, realizing Molly had been speaking to him.

"I beg your pardon," he spoke at last. "I was remembering something, what were you saying?"

"I said do you want a cup as well? Mrs. Hudson thought to bring up another cup."

"Please," he said, but then took the pot himself. "I'll do that, sit back," he insisted.

At that moment, the bell rang. Both Watson and Molly looked up with some surprise. Mrs. Hudson went pattering down the hall to answer it, hearing her let the Inspector in, both sat back, shrugging. He was probably looking for Holmes.

"I'm sorry to disturb you Doctor Watson," Lestrade came in, then quickly removed his hat. "Ma'am,"

"This is Doctor Hooper," Watson gestured to Molly. "I imagine you're looking for Holmes. He's not in at the moment, if you'd care to wait-"

"Thank you, but I'll see him later on when it's more convenient, I'd not have disturbed you but for this woman," he stepped aside, revealing a woman with blonde hair and striking blue eyes. Now Watson stood quickly. "Says she's a nurse, didn't think it was necessary, seeing as you're a doctor, but I supposed it wouldn't do any harm."

"Thank you, Inspector Lestrade," Watson answered. "Will you stay for a cuppa?"

"I won't, thank you," Lestrade excused. "There's too much for me to do at the moment, another time, perhaps. Good evening, Doctor Hooper," Lestrade tipped his hat, then again to the woman at his side and went on his way.

"Can we offer you a cup of tea Miss-" Watson gestured to a chair nearby.

"Morstan," the woman finished for him. "Mary Morstan, I'm a nurse and I'd heard the explosion, I came to see if I could be of any assistance, but I see that trouble, for the most part-" she looked at the boarded windows. "Has been somewhat averted."

"Aside from a few scrapes," Molly added. "I am pleased to meet you Miss Morstan,"

"Not half as pleased as I am to meet you," Miss Morstan smiled, seating herself near Molly. "Did I hear correctly, you're a doctor?"

"Yes, of pathology," Molly replied. "Only just, I start at Barts in a week, I'll more than likely only be able to assist on post mortems for the time being, but it's a start."

"And a marvelous one at that!" Miss Morstan agreed. She suddenly stood. "Oh please excuse me, I've forgotten myself. I only pressed in because of the explosion, but I see that my services aren't necessary, it would be rude to stay."

"Please come tomorrow," Molly insisted. "I'll be rested then, and Doctor Watson will be in as well,"

Watson, who had barely uttered a word, realized Molly had mentioned him, and straightened up somewhat. "Yes! I shall be in, call at your earliest convenience, Miss Morstan, we shall be delighted."

Molly had noticed the good doctor had seemed transfixed as soon as Miss Morstan had set foot into 221b, and so, smiling to herself, suggested: "Do see her to the door, Doctor Watson, won't you?"

Mary Morstan, glanced at Molly, her eyes sparkling with some gratefulness as she stood aside for Watson to show her the way.

Watson quickly stood, brushing down his waistcoat, walking side-by-side with Miss Morstan.

"I cannot apologize enough for pushing in," Mary said as the reached the door.

"Think nothing of it, you were nearby when the explosion went off, I should imagine instinct kicked in at that point."

"Yes," Mary nodded. "But I will admit it was also for a somewhat selfish reason I came to investigate as well,"

"Oh?" Watson was intrigued.

"Yes, you see I noted your ad in the paper about hiring a nurse for your practice."

"Oh!" Watson raised his eyebrows surprised. "Well! I…should be delighted to see your references at your earliest convenience."

"Truly?" Mary asked.

"Oh yes," he nodded, reaching around her to open the door. "I should be very happy to meet again and go over the prospect of working together."

They were very nearly the same height, and in the open door, the moonlight streamed in, shining on Mary Morstan's lovely features. Watson quite forgot himself for a moment, all too happy to go on admiring her.

"What?"

"What?" he looked startled. Had he said something?!

"No, it's just…you were looking at me…"

"Oh! I'm…sorry-"

"No it's all right," she smiled, almost cheekily. "I rather liked looking back." She turned to go, then paused on the stoop. "Until tomorrow Doctor Watson,"

"Tomorrow," he murmured, and watched her go.

He was still standing there when a few minutes later a carriage stopped on the street and Holmes climbed out.

"Watson!" the consulting detective jogged up the steps, waving Mycroft's driver on. "What are you doing out here? Is Molly worse?"

Watson blinked suddenly, realizing. "Oh! No! Far from it, she's quite well."

"Then are you doing out here?" Holmes pushed past him, stepping inside and removing his coat and hat.

"Saying goodnight to Miss Morstan," Watson answered, shutting the door after them. "She'll be stopping by tomorrow, she'll be applying as my nurse, as well as visiting Miss Hooper,"

"Doctor," Sherlock corrected, tugging off his gloves and shoving them in his overcoat pocket.

"What?" Both Watson and Molly asked, the latter from her place by the fire.

"You ought to be in bed," Sherlock frowned at her. He studied the cut on her head, asked Watson if it ought to be wrapped, which the good Doctor shook his head that it was perfectly fine, having been cleaned out properl.

"It's just some slight bruising, I'll be perfectly fine in the morning," Molly assured him.

"Oh, which reminds me, Mycroft sent this over," he dropped a parcel in her lap, which she began to unwrap while he picked up her unattended cup of tea and blew on the steaming liquid.

"What did you think of her?" Watson suddenly asked.

"Who?" Sherlock asked.

"Miss Morstan?" Molly asked, glancing up from the box of biscuits Mycroft had sent over. "We only met her for a moment, I can hardly judge a person's character in a few moments- do shut up, Sherlock."

Sherlock, glancing at her over the rim of the cup, merely raised an eyebrow. "I am pleased to hear you call me 'Sherlock' again," he said quietly.

She glanced up at him, somewhat surprised, then quickly blinked, schooling her features.

"A momentary lapse, Mr. Holmes, I do apologize."

He was about to protest there would be nothing wrong in her using his given name, and he would, in fact, encourage her to use it, but Watson interrupted:

"That reminds me, Holmes, whatever did you go and see your brother about?"

"The weather, Watson, what else?" Holmes set the cup down with a rattle, a clear shift in his mood. "I'll be upstairs if you need me, which I doubt very much," with that he left Watson and Molly to wonder as he hurried to the privacy of him room. There was much for him to consider, and he could not take a single distraction at the moment.

"Does he seem to be brushing this off?" Watson asked.

"Yes," Molly agreed with a frown.

"Should one of us go and speak to him?"

"No," Molly shook her head. "He wouldn't hear us anyway. He's puzzled. Let him work it out."

Watson, after a moment, nodded, resigned.

 **Across London…Anthea Whittaker's flat**

"Miss Whittaker," Mycroft turned from the window. "I wonder if you would do me a personal favor?"

"Yes of course," she answered.

"I wonder if you would be good enough to retire from the stage, take a holiday somewhere far from here, somewhere warm and pleasant where you needn't worry about the goings' on of London."

"I should be glad to retire at your earliest request," Anthea answered. "But as for going anywhere, I am afraid I will have to refuse. If I am to retire from the stage, it will be to stand at your side as your wife, through whatever storm you seem to foresee."

"The storm, my dear," Mycroft replied. "Is already here, and we have only begun to feel its affects."

Anthea took his arm, squeezing gently as she rested her head against him. "Mycroft, what is it? Why the sudden urgency for me to retire?"

"Forgive me," he covered her hand in his. "I simply feel the sudden need to look after you, to protect you."

"Then you'd best keep me as close as possible," Anthea answered. They were silent for a moment. "Mycroft what is happening? Why was your brother so upset this evening?"

"Because there is a terrible game going on, Anthea, a game he is not certain he can win."


	7. Sink or Swim

There fell over Baker Street a hushed anticipation, one, unfortunately, that would not be a pleasant one. Sherlock was agitated and more often than not, positively insufferable. Mrs. Hudson refused to let him abuse her in such a fashion and asked Molly or John bring up 'His Majesty's tea' if he was going to behave like that. John, busy with his clinic, and in seeing that Miss Morstan was perfectly settled in as his nurse, left the task to Molly. Being the good-natured woman that she was, she agreed. For the first week, the tray was left in a quiet corner of the upstairs sitting room where Sherlock holed up. The tray was usually found the next morning outside the door, mostly untouched save the biscuits.

"This will never do, he'll finish himself before he's begun," Watson said, seeing Molly come down with the tray, as usual having not been picked over.

"Perhaps you can convince him to have a sandwich," Molly urged. "I can't stay in today, Doctor Stamford is allowing me to oversee an autopsy."

"No of course you should go," Watson nodded. "I'll see if Mrs. Hudson won't cut some sandwiches."

"Try coffee instead of tea. She insists tea is best, but I know Sherlock, he won't touch anything but coffee when he's on a case."

"Hm," Watson nodded, looking up the stairway. "Has he said anything?"

Molly shook her head. "Not a word, leastwise to me. Try and get him to talk, he'll bottle it up and be of no use to any of us."

"I rather think he'd say something to you, more than me," Watson replied with a sardonic smile.

"Me?" She scoffed. "Why on earth me? You're his dearest friend."

"Am I?" Watson paused then, thoughtful. "Yes. Yes I suppose I am. But you, my dear woman, are the one he admires."

"Perhaps," it was her turn to ponder. "Perhaps not, but in any case, what we were is no longer relevant," she gave a short sigh, smiling all too brightly at Watson. "How is Miss Morstan getting on? Not too frightened of all of East End's horrors?"

"Not a bit of it, she's the bravest, keenest, cleverest woman I ever met in my life," Watson said, his cheeks tinged pink at the subject of Miss Morstan. "I wonder…Miss Hooper, if I took a lady like Miss Morstan to tea…where should I take her?"

"See if Mrs. Hudson will put together a picnic lunch," Molly suggested.

"Oh no, I think it must be somewhere very nice!"

"Nonsense," Molly cautioned. "Miss Morstan might appreciate a fine restaurant in time, but for now a friendly picnic in the park will be just the thing for the pair of you. Perhaps you might employ one of the Irregulars to carry it over."

"Perhaps. Thank you Miss Hooper. Now I'll say no more, or else Doctor Stamford will have my head, keeping his protégé from her dishes!"

Molly snorted. "I hardly wash dishes, Doctor Watson."

"No? Eh, then what do you do?"

"Currently? I've been helping the squeamish doctors identify the differences between healthy organs and poisoned."

"Hm." Watson decided it would be prudent to stop talking (he was finding that to be the case more often than not when it came to Miss Hooper's profession), so he merely nodded goodbye to Molly as she swept past him and out the front door. "Mind you take care, be safe!"

"Yes I will, and the same to you!"

There had been two more explosions since the one on Baker Street. The Yard had employed Sherlock to investigate them, and while the evidence was mounting, there were only bits and pieces of a much larger puzzle, and thus-far, nothing made sense. Everyone at Baker Street was on edge. Watson waited by the window to see that Molly went away safely, noting the two Irregulars that trotted along after the carriage at a safe distance.

* * *

"Mail's in," Watson called, booting open the door to the parlor. "Here's a tray for you as well, fresh coffee, and Mrs. Hudson has had cook try something new on you: croissants instead of biscuits."

"I prefer biscuits," Sherlock bit into the pastry anyway while Watson poured out. "Where is Molly?"

"She's gone to work."

"Mycroft's carriage picked her up?"

"I would imagine so, as he's sent the bloody thing every single morning since she's begun work."

"Hm. Well then she's gone, _we_ can get to work," Sherlock downed the cup of coffee wincing as it scalded his tongue. "I'm going to get dressed, then we must get on to the Yard, Lestrade sent a note not ten minutes ago, I was waiting for you to come up. Come on, full day ahead, Watson, if Lestrade is to be believed!"

"What's he need this time?" Watson asked. "Not another explosion?"

"No! Kidnapped children! The Prime Minister's children were pilfered from under everyone's noses!"

"Oh…oh!" Watson hurried after his friend. "Er, Holmes-"

Sherlock paused at his bedroom. "Hm?"

"Try not to look so cheerful about kidnapped children, hmm?

"Oh, right," Sherlock nodded, pushing open his door.

* * *

 **Scotland Yard**

The Yard was in its usual state of chaotic business, amid it all Lestrade was pushing aside papers, placing the cases he himself could not handle into younger men's hands, eager to make their claim to fame and do their bit for the good city of London. Ordinarily, Detective Lestrade would not put any sort of case other than a burglary into so many young detectives hands, but they were strapped. The every-day cases could be pieced out to the younger crowd while the elder ones sorted through this awful Moriarty affair.

Catching sight of Sherlock Holmes coming through the crowds, followed by Doctor Watson, Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God, someone with sense, come over, you two, hurry up."

They followed the Inspector through to the board room where several more officers were waiting. Among them was a female officer, a rather surprising sight. She made for a striking figure among the men, lithe and strong. Aside from this, her choice of grey tweed cycling suit, along with her dark features made her stand out. Her face was stern, her eyes cool and calculating.

"Another one," Watson murmured. He was unaccustomed to seeing women taking men's positions, and every time he happened upon one, he could not help but be shocked. He had a passing thought that Miss Morstan would be pleased to know of a woman working at Scotland Yard, one that was clearly not a secretary. He would be sure to pass the information along.

"Another what, Watson?" Holmes asked, low, he followed the Doctor's nod to the woman standing among the men. "Oh!" Even Holmes was surprised

"That's Inspector Donovan," one of the other detectives, Dimmock, said to them. "She recently transferred from the North. She'd be good if she'd stop treating every single man like a God-awful piss-stain."

Sherlock looked Dimmock up and down. "I expect she's only had experience with…piss-stains for men."

Dimmock's mouth hung open while Watson smothered a grin.

Sherlock approached Donovan. "I expect you'd been brought up to speed, Inspector?"

"It's lieutenant, and yes," was the clipped response.

"Good. If you are as keen as Inspector Lestrade seems to think you are, then working with you will be relatively easy."

Donovan frowned at him. "'Seems to think'?" she repeated.

"Yes, I would have thought your presence at this meeting is because Lestrade thinks you're clever and will be useful. I look forward to working with you, if that is the case." He didn't sound as if he looked forward to working with her, not in the slightest.

She lifted her chin. "Despite the fact that I'm a woman?"

"No," Sherlock met her frown with his own. "If you're clever, that will make working together every bit easier. I hate working with incompetent people. I should hate for you to be one." With that he stepped past her, moving towards the board of evidence to study it.

"You'll have to pardon him," Watson excused as he passed her. "Bit on edge."

"I think that's just how he is," Donovan replied sourly. "Heard a lot of things about Mr. Holmes…how he likes this sort of thing…kidnappings and murder…why else would he be here?"

"He likes to solve things," Watson corrected, facing her. "His excitement is out of place, to be sure, the actual acts bring him no pleasure, I assure you."

"Solve things," Donovan snorted.

"Why are you here, Lieutenant, if you don't like to 'solve things'?" Watson asked quietly. Donovan had no answer, and so Watson gave her a curt nod, moving up to stand beside Holmes.

* * *

The kidnapping was, to Holmes delight, an exhaustive search, one he was able to narrow down to several derelict factories. It was his own search party that found the children. He was pleasantly surprised that Donovan was able to follow his line of thought fairly well, and Lestrade caught on too, after a time. In the dark, cold textile factory off the wharf, they found a trail of wrappers for sweets. Sherlock picked them up.

"A trail, Mr. Holmes?" Donovan asked.

"One must assume so, a clumsy one, but a trail none-the-less,"

"You know what they say about assuming," Donovan muttered.

"No, what do they say, Lieutenant?" Holmes asked, to which Donovan smirked, briefly amused.

Holmes may have been a weird buggar, but at least she was on somewhat equal footing with him. Or at least as equal as one could be with a man like Holmes. He tended to look down on everyone, a trait that grated on her nerves. "Mr. Holmes what are you doing?!" she asked, horrified as she watched the Consulting Detective lick one of the wrappers.

He made a wretched face, spitting whatever he tasted onto the floor. "Mercury!"

"What, you mean they're poisoned?" Lestrade goggled.

"One can't be shocked, this is a mad-man we're dealing with," he held up his torch, casting the light up the factory stairways. Wrappers littered the ground. "He was feeding them, but on a time-table for us, the more they eat, the sicker they become, and they won't know why… _neat_ …"

" _Holmes,_ " Watson bit out.

"Oh…" Sherlock had the decency to look somewhat ashamed. "Sorry."

"Where are they?" Donovan asked, voice tinged with worry.

"Nearby, the wrappers are becoming scarce," Holmes said, moving forward.

"Everyone fan out, mind where you step, and keep quiet, listen for anything that might alert you!" Lestrade instructed. He took Donovan's elbow, helping her over a beam, which she allowed.

For a tense half-hour the search party moved quietly through the factory, the faint sound of scuffling boots and soft voices was all to be heard.

"This is useless," Donovan said, hushed, to Lestrade. "The children must have been moved by now, or the wrappers left as a dummy clue!"

"I trust Holmes," Lestrade replied. "So should you,"

"Yes but-"

"Here! Over here!"

Donovan and Lestrade turned with a start, hearing Sherlock bellowing. Above them on the abandoned office-floor, Holmes waved his lantern.

"Fetch an ambulance, one of them is breathing!" Watson shouted.

"One of them-" Donovan muttered, breathless. Lestrade tugged her along up the stairs while two officers jogged for the exit.

 **St. Bartholomew's Morgue**

"The child was badly poisoned indeed," Molly's soft voice echoed in the cool, dimly lit room. "His sister, I imagine, only survived because she was older."

"Not by much," Watson replied, somewhat gruffly. The men that stood about the small corpse on the slab were clearly affected.

"Mr. Holmes was correct, it was mercury poisoning," Molly went on after a moment, she pulled back the sheet, inhaling sharply. Sherlock noticed, but said nothing, studying her carefully. She was affected, of course she was, but there was a deeper sorrow in her eyes than mere sadness at the loss of a child's life. Had she known such a sorrow? A sibling, perhaps? Sherlock could not recall, and he found himself upset that noticing her demeanor was distracting him at such a time.

"What do you think, Holmes?"

He blinked, realizing Lestrade was talking to him. "Hm?"

"What do you think, about the girl? Will she live?"

"You have two doctors standing here," Holmes replied, clipped.

"You're the poison expert," Watson replied. "You knew it was mercury right off."

"I wouldn't have known to look for it otherwise," Molly added. The men turned to her, and so she paused, fiddling with the sheet. "The sister is older, her body mass is sturdier than her brother's, and I would imagine as she was the elder of the two, she gave him more of the sweets, believing he'd need the sustenance more than her."

"Poor child…" Watson murmured.

"She mustn't know," Lestrade decided. "She needn't know that the sweets were poisoned, all she's endured, let's leave it at the sweets made them sick, but her brother was too weak, from cold or the shock of it all."

"Agreed," Stamford murmured, and Watson nodded as well.

"I must speak with the child," Holmes said suddenly.

"What, _now_?" Lestrade asked, shocked.

"Yes, or as soon as possible, before some idiot gets hold of her and starts putting their oddly phrased questions into her head. It must be me."

"Holmes, she's had a terrible shock, perhaps-"

"Tomorrow," Watson insisted. "She needs rest, Holmes. Tomorrow, first thing I am sure Inspector Lestrade won't mind you questioning her first."

"Ten o'clock, no earlier," Lestrade said. "Ah-" he pointed a finger at Holmes as the Consulting Detective began to protest. "I must insist on this, Holmes, no earlier than ten. She's barely conscious right now."

"It's got to be soon, when everything is fresh," Holmes insisted. "Even a day is too long."

Molly glanced between the Detective Inspector and Sherlock, worrying her hands. "I think Mr. Holmes is right," she said, quietly. The men all turned to her, surprised. "It's probably not my place to say," she said quickly, feeling the surprised gaze of Doctor Stamford quite keenly. "But…she's shocked, yes, and at the moment, she's awake. Everything will be fresh, it could mean getting a leg up on Professor Moriarty."

"It could be what he's counting on, knowing Holmes is not the best with patience," Lestrade countered.

"Perhaps, but we've got to try," Holmes replied.

Lestrade was quiet, staring at the floor. Finally, he nodded, heaving a sigh. "Very well, Holmes, but you don't go in there alone."

"Naturally, Watson will accompany me."

"No, too many men, we can't have three men in the room with the child," Lestrade said.

"Three?"

"Yes, Holmes, I have to be there as well, you're not running this case!"

"Who do you suggest then?" Holmes asked, rather waspishly.

"Donovan will accompany you and I."

Molly didn't know who this Donovan was, but by the look on Sherlock's face, she got the feeling this Donovan was not Sherlock's first choice.

* * *

 **Later that Evening**

Hearing the front door slam shut, Molly set aside her book. Watson entered first, looking quite downcast.

"Good heavens," was all she said.

The doctor glanced up, nodding, understanding what she meant. "The child was able to speak…but not to Holmes."

"What?"

"She…she seemed to recognize him, as if…" Watson could not finish the thought, leaving Molly in suspense.

"I don't understand, as if what?" she pressed.

Watson set aside his coat and hat, flopping into his chair by the fire. He rubbed his aching temples. "The child screamed, Miss Hooper, as if Holmes were the man who took her."

"But that's impossible!" Molly gasped. "It makes no sense! He's never seen those children before this case!"

"Precisely Moriarty's plan." Both turned at the Consulting Detective's voice. He stood in the doorway, confusion and shock behind his sorrowful expression. "I will be upstairs." He departed quietly, leaving Watson and Molly to worry.

"I'll see to him tonight," Molly said quietly. "You've done enough for the day I think."

"Thank you, Miss Hooper," Watson answered tiredly. "Any messages?"

"Yes, Miss Morstan said she would be only too happy to look after your patients during this case, and the picnic may be put off to a better day, unless you may spare an hour this week for tea."

At this, Watson brightened, despite his exhausted state. "Oh!"

"There, you seem to know the woman better than me," Molly said, pleased at his delight in the message. "I have a half-day this week, I will accompany Sherlock, and you may take your Miss Morstan to a lovely tea room."

"Thank you, Miss Hooper," Watson said, quite feelingly. "I shall send a note to her immediately." He got to his feet, hurrying up to his room to pen his reply. Molly shook her head, smiling to herself before departing to the kitchen to see about putting together a tray for Sherlock.

 **Upstairs**

Her gentle knocking was met with a disgruntled: "Come in, come in, whoever you are!". When he saw it was Molly, he straightened somewhat, his posture and expression seeming to apologize for his tone.

"I brought you a tray," Molly said, coming in, nudging the door shut behind her. Balancing the tray on one arm, she shifted papers so as not to crush them. She studied the room as she moved things about, seeing to what extent Sherlock's agitation had spread.

"I have been busy," Sherlock excused, shuffling the papers, he tossed them to the low sofa, then took the tray from her, setting it down. "Well. You have delivered the tray, and as I see there is a second cup you mean to join me."

"Only if it isn't disagreeable. I know you like to think aloud, and as Mrs. Hudson has hidden your skull and you have yet to find it, I thought I might sit in."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snapped. "Watson sits in for Billy," he paused. "But I should be glad of your company."

After a moment, she nodded, gathering her skirts, she seated herself, shifting yet more newspapers. "Honestly, Mr. Holmes, you collect papers like a bag woman."

"I wish you wouldn't do that," he said, rather cross.

"What?"

"Call me 'Mr. Holmes'."

She looked at him quite levelly. "What shall I call you then?"

"My given name, for pity's sake. We are close enough for that, you will agree."

"Very well," she shifted, uncomfortable. "Tell me about what happened today, Sherlock." The name rolled off her tongue as it always had. Both felt the ease with which she said it, that she had always been comfortable to say it. To Sherlock, Baker Street suddenly felt quite home-like again.

He stood before the fire, gathering his thoughts.

"I expect Watson has told you already."

"He has," Molly nodded. "But not all of it."

Sherlock remained silent.

"Tell me of your spiders web," Molly prompted, nodding to the wall. "I see the paper clipping of Miss Adler, how does she feature in this case?"

"A pawn of Moriarty's, I assure you," Sherlock answered quickly, stepping up beside her to look at the collage of clippings, photographs, notes and pilfered letters he'd collected.

"I assumed as much," Molly answered with a wave of her hand, sounding annoyed. "How does she figure? I'd have thought a woman of her brains would be too clever to get involved with a man like Professor Moriarty."

Sherlock's smirk fell. "A woman of her brains?"

"She did best you, Sherlock," Molly replied, glancing at him.

"Perhaps I let her," he replied, too quickly. Molly's response was a mere look, and he lowered his head, clearing his throat. "Yes. Well. Moriarty has been using her connections in society."

"He doesn't strike me as the type to really care what the up-and-up's think of him," Molly frowned. "What's his angle?"

"He's making a name for himself with the popular crowd, with those who count on their word being enough to convince everyone without explanation, he's trying to protect himself."

"But from what?" Molly murmured, peering up at the clipping of Moriarty. "What is he trying to protect himself from?"

"Me." Was Sherlock's simple reply.

" _You?!"_

"Yes me," Sherlock answered again. "This is all an elaborate game, he's waiting for me to make my move, and meanwhile he's setting up his pieces just so. Today proved that. I went in to interview the girl, plenty of witnesses, so that we were all protected, stupidly, I did not think- of course he would see I planned on that!" Sherlock scrubbed at his scalp, angry. "The child seemed to recognize me, Moriarty must have employed a double to kidnap the children, she thought she recognized me, screamed like the bloody dickens."

"Poor child," Molly sighed. "And everyone was there to see…"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. He could still hear the child's horrified screams, burying her face in Donovan's breast, clawing at the bed sheets to put as much distance between herself and him. "And perfectly clever of Moriarty, a child screaming at me, in a room full of witnesses, plenty of doubt to instill in them."

"No one would believe you did such a thing," Molly said.

"Wouldn't I?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"No you would not," Molly insisted, her voice steady. "You are nothing like Moriarty."

"Am I?" Sherlock turned to face her. "We are rather more similar than you think. How else is he able to keep in step with me? Know exactly what my next move is in this ridiculous game of his." He rested his head against the mantle, breathing deeply. "It's maddening, this game. He's in my head and I cannot get him out."

"So then you needn't play," Molly answered, touching his arm. "If he's truly dangerous, if he's already foreseen you exposing him for what he is, that he feels the need to cover his footsteps and character, then he's expecting you to retaliate in kind."

"He was responsible for the explosion several weeks ago," Sherlock said finally. "But I have no proof, for the Prime Minister's children being kidnapped, for the rigged carriages outside of parliament, he's responsible for it all and I have no proof."

"The police have always believed in you, Sherlock."

"Yes, but this is different. Moriarty has already begun to make himself known among the upper circles, dangerous circles who could raise dire consequences to myself and those involved with me if I don't play the game exactly as Moriarty has planned it."

Molly looked at him carefully, and he quickly shifted his studious gaze to the floor, knowing well enough when he was being deduced by Molly. She might not have had the critical eye that Sherlock and his brother were blessed with, but she knew the Holmes men very well indeed to know when something was amiss, when one or the other was hiding something from her.

"He has been here," Molly stated, her voice soft.

"He has," Sherlock nodded.

"In this room?"

A shake of the head. "No," Sherlock answered. "Downstairs parlor. He dropped in for tea yesterday while you were out and Watson was on calls."

"What did he say?"

"Merely that I was being watched, as were the rest of the occupants of Baker Street."

"Me as well?"

"You he is uncertain of," Sherlock turned to the fire again. "But I cannot be certain how much he knows of you."

"Miss Adler will have told him by now, our marriage was no secret, nor our separation."

"Indeed, we must be cautious then."

Molly did not like the feeling of being watched. There was something uncontrollably sinister about Professor Moriarty, a deeply ingrained wickedness in him, and the fact that he was as brilliant-minded as Sherlock Holmes made her quiver with fear.

"-Was that it?"

She looked up suddenly, realizing Sherlock was speaking to her.

"What?"

"Earlier today," Sherlock repeated. "When the boy's body was in the morgue…you had a look about you…did you lose a brother?"

Molly bit her lip, turning her gaze to her lap once more. Sherlock would have noticed her expression earlier. "No…you know I never had siblings."

"There is something else then," Sherlock pressed. "You were upset, so much so that you cried later," he knelt down so that he could peer up at her face. "I know very well when you have cried, Molly, I know it too well."

Her mouth pulled into a frown, and she shut her eyes for a moment, willing the lump in her throat to go away. "It was only a thought…a passing…wish…a chance I…we might have had."

"What?" Sherlock's brow furrowed, thoroughly confused. "The boy?"

Molly nodded. "We might have had a son…"

"We might have," Sherlock nodded. "But you were never-" he stopped speaking, suddenly very still. "Molly you have never been pregnant."

The silence between them was terrible, and he felt his heart drop in his chest as Molly drew breath, and he knew right away what she was going to say.

"I was once."

Sherlock stood slowly, an odd feeling washed over him, shock that Molly had once carried a child, carried and lost. "How long ago?" he asked. Molly remained as she was, head bowed, hands limp in her lap.

"Four years now," Molly replied, sniffling.

Sherlock nodded slowly. He did not recall her ever conveying such important news to him. But four years ago, Molly would not have entrusted him with such a thing, given the state he was usually in. Suddenly, his heart lurched. "Molly…was…was I the cause of-" he couldn't finish the sentence, too overcome by the idea. Knowing what he meant, she reached for him, grasping his hand, squeezing.

"No! No, Sherlock, it wasn't you."

"Why did you never tell me?" he insisted, kneeling again, cradling her head in his hands.

"I didn't know how…you…the night it happened…you weren't yourself, you see and I just…"

Sherlock bowed his head, ashamed. "It _was_ me after all then," he murmured.

Molly had no answer for him. Slowly, he withdrew from her.

"I am no better than the man I am trying to defeat," he said, voice hollow.

Molly was on her feet in an instant, turning him to face her. "Don't you dare say such a thing, not ever, do you understand?" he would not look at her, but she turned his head, holding his chin. "Do you understand me? We are not who we were four years ago, you are not who you were-"

"Aren't I?" Sherlock asked, pushing away from her. "I still want- I still have cravings, Molly, I still desire the feeling the drug gives me I can't control it forever."

"You have thus far," she lowered her gaze briefly. "I thank heaven for Doctor Watson."

" _No_ ," Sherlock insisted then. He took her hand. "He is a good friend, the best I think I have ever had. But I have endured this state, I have stayed away from any temptation because of you, because…without you nothing meant the same. I have been selfish, and cruel to you, and this forced separation brought to light how badly off I have been, how I've treated myself, and worse still, how I've treated you. How could you have endured such a loss?" he murmured. He ached to his bones, shame and anger at himself welling up inside of him.

"I've let it go," Molly said gently. "I was angry with you for so long, for not knowing, for being…as you were at the time, please…don't do this to yourself. Mourn the child we lost, by all means. You should mourn it. It's a great loss. I am glad you know now, it will make grieving a little easier for me." When he rested his forehead against hers, she shut her eyes, savoring the moment. "At least we have that in common, our lost chance."

"Don't," he grasped her hands, pressing them to his chest. "Please don't say that."

"It's true…isn't it?" she asked quietly, looking up at him. She did not dare hope.

"No, not if you do not wish it. I certainly don't."

"Just to be clear," Heart hammering in her chest, hands trembling, she met his gaze. "We are talking about children."

"Yes," he nodded. "Obviously, not now, we can't, I can't put you in danger, I would not forgive myself if anything were to happen to you."

"Moriarty is watching all of us," Molly said, more to herself.

"Yes, but you…" Sherlock drew her close, and she rested her head against his shoulder. His long fingers stroked the curls at the nape of her neck and she sighed at the sensation, realizing how dearly she missed his touch. "He isn't sure of you."

"Then what shall we do?" Molly asked.

For a moment, he was silent. "I think, my dear, we must go on as we are, or at least, as we have been."

"What?" Molly stepped back in his arms.

"We cannot let him know about you," Sherlock said, still keeping his arms around her. "You must be as meaningless to me as Inspector Dimmock or Lieutenant Donovan."

The hurt in her eyes melted away as she caught on. "Yes I see," she nodded slowly.

"I will not risk losing you," Sherlock went on, quiet and fierce. "Not again, and not to as wretched a man as him."

"You won't," Molly answered. "I promise."

"You'd better say goodnight," Sherlock said, soft, quite regretting that he could not follow her. "They will see the light in your room and mine."

"Yes," Molly nodded. She turned to go, but he caught her arm, and with a glance to the windows, seeing the curtains were fastened, he drew her again in his arms, kissing her as if his life depended upon it. Four years he had not kissed his wife, for that was indeed what she still was to him, though if only in secret. He missed her desperately, and having her respond in kind to his embrace was almost too much for him to bear.

"After," he murmured, breathless, forcing himself to pull away. "When this is all over-"

Molly nodded, lips swollen now, eyes shining at him. "Yes," voice barely above a whisper. "Yes I know." He stepped away, forced himself to place his arms behind his back. He did not have the strength to even nod his head to her, to even look away for a moment. He wanted to remember her as she looked at this very moment: flushed and aglow, mouth red and eyes shining. She looked so very beautiful and kind and warm, everything the world at this moment was not.

"Goodnight!" He said at last, forcing himself to remain where he was.

"Goodnight Mr. Holmes," she stepped back again, feeling her face still flushed. Picking up the tray, she departed, one last, beatific smile cast in his direction.

Once the door was shut, Sherlock picked up his violin. Plucking idly at the strings, he thought on that evening, on the afternoon's terrible events. If Moriarty was keeping tabs on them, then Sherlock would see to it the Professor and his men saw just what they were looking for. Flourishing his bow, Sherlock began to play. Moriarty wanted a show, and Sherlock would see to it that he got one.


	8. It's All a Blur, Really

For some weeks, Molly saw very little of either Sherlock or Doctor Watson. She heard and read a great deal, and it worried her tremendously. But she remembered her conversation with Sherlock and did her best to keep her head down, and keep on doing what she'd been doing.

"I think they are both cut out for the task," Mary Morstan said one afternoon. She and Molly had begun taking their afternoon tea together before Miss Morstan went home, and both had become good friends due to the recently acquired tradition.

"Hmm?" Molly glanced up from her own cup. "Oh, yes, of course they are."

Mary studied her carefully, thoughtful. "You still love Mr. Holmes, don't you?"

For a moment, Molly couldn't speak. She was surprised that Mary had been perceptive enough to notice something like that.

"You aren't obvious, if that's what you're worried about," Mary soothed quickly. "I happen to notice is all. John had said something of how it was pleasant here again, now that you and Mr. Holmes are friends again. I had my suspicions that you never stopped…" she looked at Molly for confirmation.

The pathologist could only shrug. "We did have a falling out. It is easier now, it's been years since that awful night. Things are better now." She suddenly crooked a smile at Mary Morstan. "Things are going better, I'd say, for you and Doctor Watson."

Mary flushed a little, nodding. "Yes, most certainly."

"Has anything definite been said?"

Mary's smile was cheeky. "Not 'said'…exactly."

"Mary Morstan!" Molly burst out, red and laughing.

"Oh for goodness sakes! I expect lots of couples share a kiss now and then!" Mary replied, not at all embarrassed.

"Some do, I am sure," Molly answered. The clock on the wall chimed, alerting her to the time. "Good heavens, is that the time? I'm needed at the hospital."

"At this hour?" Mary stood, setting aside her plate.

"Yes I put my name on the list of doctors available in the evenings…I'm not doing anything else, you see. It seems a waste to sit at home when I could be useful."

"Hmm," Mary shrugged. "You might do with an evening free as well. What time do you have to be there?"

"Eight,"

"Well it's only half-past six, you'll be early yet."

"I have to change and then stop off somewhere first,"

"Shall I help you? It'll go faster."

"Please," Molly agreed, deciding she was not eager to part from Mary's company just yet.

Upstairs, Molly laid out her work dress and boots.

"Have you read the latest of John's articles about this awful Moriarty?" Mary asked, helping Molly unbutton.

"I have," Molly answered. "It's awful, isn't it?"

"He didn't put half of what that awful man has been doing."

"Why- how would you know?" Molly asked, alarmed.

Mary wouldn't look her in the eye exactly. She busied herself with folding Molly's blouse over her arm, smoothing out the creases. "John tells me-"

"Mary Morstan he does not tell you a blessed thing about the cases!" Molly stamped her foot. "Have you been following them?!"

"Not following, exactly," Mary answered, hushed. She glanced at the closed door before moving a step closer. "Do you remember the night Baker Street was nearly bombed?"

Molly folded her arms across her middle, suddenly feeling the chill of the room. "I try not to."

Mary nodded, understandingly. "Do you never think it odd that I just popped in? Did you never wonder how providential it was of my coming that exact night?"

"I can't say as I think it was much of a coincidence, now that you're bringing it up," Molly said, worried as towhere Mary's story was leading.

Mary nodded, finally meeting her gaze. "I was sent by Sherlock's brother."

There was a long pause as Molly let Miss Morstan's words sink in. Mary worked for the elder Holmes!

" _Mycroft?"_ Molly was clearly shocked. She didn't know what she'd expected Mary to say, certainly not that!

Another nod. "I've been working for your brother in-law for the past eight years now. My John mustn't know. It's for his protection as well as Sherlock's. I've made friends with Irene Adler, and with a man called Sebastian Moran, who John knows from his army days. Both have strong connections with Moriarty."

Molly rubbed her forehead, shocked at this revelation. "If you're working for Mycroft then…you and John-"

"Oh please don't think that everything I do is a farce now," Mary said, quite feelingly. "I am returning a favor to your brother in-law, a well-deserved favor. He saved my life, and now I'm trying to save his brother's. The feelings that I have for John are quite real, and quite unexpected…I've never felt like this about anyone. When I think of what I might lose if any of this got out…" she bowed her head, gathering herself. She reached for Molly's hand, squeezing. "I'm quite fond of you too, you know, I've never had any sort of friend I could confide in. I'm telling you this because you ought to know…things could be very dangerous, and you've got to keep your head down. I think that Sherlock needs someone desperately, and it can't be me, it can't even be John."

"Sherlock doesn't need me," Molly answered automatically.

"Perhaps not the way you think, not the way John helps him, or even his brother, but he does need someone who loves him unconditionally."

"I'm the wrong sort for that," Molly smiled, bittersweet. "But I think I know what you mean. Yes, I'll be careful, of course I will. I don't know anyone, and I don't talk to anyone."

"Good," Mary sighed, relieved. "Keep it that way, keep your ears open, won't you? If you're ever unsure, go to Mycroft, or come and find me, we're quite safe to talk to, I promise you."

"Yes I know that," Molly nodded.

She finished dressing with Mary's help, bid the nurse goodbye, and hurried out of the house, before any other secrets were brought to light.

 **Across London, Mycroft's Estate**

"Did you read this sham of a case?"

"I didn't have to, brother dear, I was there," Sherlock replied. "I shouldn't even be here, Moriarty is going to make a play for everyone."

"Naturally, it's why I plan on throwing you out, I hope you don't mind, but I shan't take any chances, not with Anthea expecting." Sherlock nodded, thoughtful, realizing the weight on his shoulders, not for the first time, that if he did not get this right, if he did not succeed, everything he held dear would be lost.

Still, he shrugged his shoulders, appearing indifferent. "Don't be too rough, the suit is new."

Mycroft tapped his fingers along the edge of the table. He was not disturbed by his brother's uncaring attitude. He knew too well Sherlock was putting his feelings to the back of his mind. If he let his feelings overtake him, his judgement would be clouded and make his task all the more difficult. "You received the cable then?" He asked, changing the subject.

"Mmm."

"And you're going through with it?"

"Yes. Everything fits, I'll see to arrangements tonight."

Mycroft gave his brother a long look. "Well then, all the best, little brother. Do use the journey wisely and practice your German, it's atrocious."

"We may all need the practice if I don't succeed," Sherlock grasped his brother's outstretched hand, shook it firmly, and then waited by the door for his brother's orderly to grasp him by the collar and toss him out.

 **HIghgate Cemetery, London**

Molly stepped down from the carriage just outside the cemetery gates. To her left, drivers and people alike shouted, citizens going about their day as if there were not a madman on the loose ready to blow them all to kingdom come. Not all, just enough to shock the nation and rattle their teeth. There was no sense to Moriarty, at least none that could be seen. There was a method to his madness, there _had_ to be. Still, Molly found herself, while still reeling from Mary's news, somewhat comforted that someone else was looking after Sherlock. Molly thought that Mary must have been a terribly strong woman to meet with a man who was associated with Moriarty, and she wished for even an ounce of Mary's courage.

As she turned to cross the walkway, she heard one of the coachmen jump down.

"Doctor Hooper," the man said, and removed his hat to speak with her. "I shall accompany you, per Mr. Holmes request."

"Thank you, Mr. Tarleton, it isn't necessary," she made another start, but the driver moved with her.

"At least to the gate, ma'am," the man implored. "Mr. Holmes will have my job if I don't."

"Leave Mr. Holmes to me," Molly replied, "Both of them," she said after a moment. "See me to the gate, and wait there."

"Very good," he gave his arm, replacing his hat, and assisted her across the sidewalk. He unlatched the creaking gate and held it open for her.

"Are you sure I can't-"

"No, thank you, Mr. Tarleton, please wait here. I'll call if I have need." With that she went forward, moving at a clipped pace. She felt her heart hammering in her chest. Uneasy by Tarleton wanting so much to come with her. She was jumping at shadows. Of course he wanted to. Mycroft would not let simply anyone accompany her, and in truth, he had probably been ordered to do so.

Stepping onto the gravel path, Molly tugged the veil of her hat over her face, finding the usual somber attitude overtake her features. Of course, one doesn't go to a graveyard for a good time. Down the main pathway, she took a left, down a narrow walkway, past the circle of Lebanon. The path was familiar; one she'd walked far too often. Behind her, she heard light feet following, so she stopped, turning to look over her shoulder. Through the London fog, she could see a silhouette.

"Tarleton, I said to wait at the gate."

The figure stepped forward, and through the mist, Molly recognized a familiar figure. Hand over her heart, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"You frightened me!"

"Apologies," Sherlock replied. He looked towards the entrance of the cemetery. "Mr. Tarelton is not with you?"

"No, I never have him come in. I let him wait at the gate for me."

"Molly," Sherlock chided. "It isn't safe."

She shrugged. "I'm doing what I've always done, taking someone with me would raise suspicion." She stepped back, taking a careful look at their surroundings as she tucked her hands further into her muff. "As will you accompanying me."

"I made a thorough search of the area before you got here," Sherlock replied. "I was not followed, nor were you."

"Well you're here now, will you come?"

"Who are you paying respects to?" Sherlock inquired.

"You never met them." Nodding for him to follow her, she turned to lead the way.

Sherlock fell in step beside his wife, keeping an eye on their surroundings.

"Here,"

He turned, realizing she'd stopped, and had knelt down at a small stone sunken into the ground. There was no name on the stone, just a date.

"Mycroft had to fight to get it," she murmured, tracing a gloved finger over the date. "The church didn't like to put a premature baby in the cemetery. I don't know why, the priest never said. But I don't believe God has any objections, why should He?"

Sherlock had no opinion on the matter, but he found himself nodding for her peace of mind. "There is no name," he spoke at last.

"No, no there wouldn't be, they never told me if it was a boy or a girl, but I wanted a marker at least."

"Yes I see." He was glad, privately, at least, that there was somewhere for Molly to commemorate their child. It boggled his mind to think that she had been pregnant, no matter how briefly. The ache was foreign to him, and in his addled thoughts, still pushed it deep down. There was not time to mourn, and in truth, he could not face that bitterness yet.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. Sherlock wished, for the first time in his life, that the case was over. He smirked inwardly. The most puzzling, fantastic case in his career, having met his equal (or practically), and he wished for it to be over and done with so that he could sit with Molly and talk about their future. Just as he was about to comment on this, however, Molly gave a short sigh.

"Is everything ready, then?"

"Hmm." He nodded.

"Your German is terrible," Molly said after a moment.

Sherlock pulled a face. "I'll work on it on the way."

"What if anything should change, or if-"

"Never mind. Everything is in place, there's no need to fret." He took a step back. In the guttering lamplight overhead, Molly could see her husband's face at last. There was every reason to worry, and Molly felt her heart sink.

"You look sad."

"What?" he turned, startled at her words.

"You look sad, when you think no one is looking. My father used to look the same, when he was dying. He'd be perfectly fine one moment, but when no one was looking he'd…" she shook her head, unable to shrug off the uneasy feeling she got. Seeing Sherlock in that pensive, truly sad state, she did not know how or why it gave her such a queer feeling. Instead, she met his gaze. "I know, of course there isn't any reason to fret. You always know just what to do, you don't need any assistance, certainly not from me, but I can't help the feeling that something isn't right." She looked up at him, and Sherlock felt himself (not for the first time) unworthy of the faith in her gaze. "I know you won't need to, but…if you need something…anything, if I could be of any help…you can always come to me."

"What should I ask you for?" he murmured softly.

She shrugged, embarrassed now. "I don't know. I'm not sure as I count for anything, what I can do…but…anyway the offer stands."

He didn't speak, he could not speak. He was flabbergasted that Molly felt she did not count. He lowered his gaze to the ground, unable to look at her any longer. He wanted to tell her it wasn't true, he wanted to comfort her. But there was no time. Moriarty was on the move and there was no bloody time! Instead he only straightened, turning to her. "I'll follow at a distance, you go back to the carriage, go on as if I was not here."

She nodded, obeying his request. As she made her way back to the entrance, she worried. She did not know even a tenth of what Sherlock was planning, only that he was going to Switzerland, somewhere in the Alps. She wished she was going with him. She wished that she knew more of what was going to happen. But anyone other than Doctor Watson accompanying him would raise suspicion. Truthfully, Sherlock appearing in Highgate was a great risk. She was glad to see him again, though. It had been several days since she'd been able to speak with him. He'd called her into the parlor to tell her that he would be going away for a short while, to Switzerland, and that Watson would accompany him. Him telling her so aloud was not odd, after all a landlord must impart such knowledge to his tenants. Still, she wished she could have bid him goodbye properly.

"One can't have everything," she muttered aloud, to herself.

The carriage dropped her at the side entrance of the hospital, and this time, Tarleton saw her all the way down to the morgue. He made a thorough inspection of the autopsy room, her tiny office, as well as the laboratory. He would not leave until Doctor Stamford was to be found and would concur that he would be there for most of Doctor Hooper's shift. Promising to come early then to fetch her, Tarleton at last doffed his hat to Molly, and bid her good evening.

"Your husband worries for you," Stamford commented.

"Not my husband, rather the elder brother," Molly answered. "It's all his doing. My husband wouldn't do a blessed thing!"

Stamford shook his head unhappily. "Shame then. Well, I'll let you get on. I'll be here as late as ten, after that, you may reach me at my house if there is any need."

"I doubt there will be," Molly replied and went to hang up her coat and hat.

The night went by slowly, and Molly's nerves lessened as well. With the morgue being so quiet, she settled in to sort through her paperwork. It was unlikely that anyone would come down, she only had one autopsy to perform, and it was a natural death at that. There wasn't much for her to confirm, really, other than that it was most likely a heart attack. That or cirrhosis of the liver.

She was elbow-deep in the corpse when Stamford poked his head in to bid her goodnight.

"Shall I stay?" he offered.

"No, not at all, I've found the cause," she said over her shoulder, nodding him in to see.

He set his case down and stepped in. "Hmm, yes," he nodded. "Well spotted."

"Don't insult me," Molly laughed. "I should think a liver in that state of decay would be obvious to anyone."

"Hmm, perhaps," Stamford chuckled. "I'll let you get on. Mind you put the paperwork on my desk."

"Yes I will," she promised. She listened for Stamford's receding footsteps, and the sound of the inner doors, and then the outer doors being opened and closed. Satisfied, she turned back to the corpse.

Soon enough, the work at hand distracted her nerves again, and she was able to concentrate. The cause of death being confirmed, she had little else to do but close him back up and put him in a cubby. The task was better suited to two people, but in a pinch, Molly could haul a body-laden gurney to the cold storage room. Unfortunately, the late Mr. Trotter was rather corpulent, and Molly had no desire to throw her back out in lifting the great man. She covered him in a sheet and pushed him through to the cold room. He would keep well enough down here until morning when someone could put him in a drawer. Rubbing her aching shoulders, she put out the lanterns in the morgue, then crossed the hall to see that everything had been put back in the laboratory. She still had the paperwork on Trotter to finish, but that could be done last of all.

Just as she was putting out the last lantern, she heard:

"You're wrong you know,"

She whirled around with a start, clutching her chest. Holding the lantern up so she could see, she gave a sigh of relief. There stood her husband, cast in shadow.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"You're wrong. You do count, you have always counted, and I have always trusted you." he went on, taking a step forward. He took the lantern from her, extinguishing it. "You're right, something has changed, and I am not all right."

"Tell me what's wrong,"

"I think…" he licked his lips, finding his mouth was dry. "I think I am going to die."

She did not tremble. She did not faint away or pale at his words. A pillar or strength, she held her ground. "What do you need?" she asked.

"Molly, If I was not everything you think I am, if I was not everything I think I am…would you still help me?"

She held his gaze, strength overwhelming faith in him radiated from her features, and repeated her question: "What do you need?"

He stepped closer, finding that in this very moment, when his world was falling around him, when everything was uncertain and nothing would ever be the same, there was one constant, the one who had always been at his side, who had always been waiting for him. He closed the gap between them, until she was only a hand's breadth away and said:

"You."


	9. We All Fall Down

_Sorry about the wait!_

* * *

"I am more sorry than I can say…"

Molly blinked, Inspector Lestrade was standing before her, and Doctor Watson was sitting nearby, holding her hand.

"Molly…your husband…" Watson looked to the Inspector, and then back to the woman who seemed frozen in place. "He was successful in defeating Professor Moriarty…but-" Watson swallowed hard, blinking. He gathered himself, trying to find the strength to look Molly in the eye. "But the cost-" again, he felt his words swallowed up in his grief, and he couldn't finish the sentence.

Molly turned then, facing him, understanding what he was so desperately trying to say. "It was dear, wasn't it?" she asked quietly.

Watson wiped his eyes, and Lestrade tried not to notice.

"Shall I stay with you?" He offered.

"No, Doctor Watson, thank you," Molly answered. "See to your Mary, she will be a better comfort to you, I am sure."

"Perhaps we could both stay; you oughtn't be alone."

"No, truly, Doctor Watson, I should prefer it, tonight, leastwise."

Watson studied her for a moment longer. In a little while though, he stood, and with Lestrade, left the pathologist to her thoughts.

From the open doorway, Lestrade glanced at Molly.

"She in shock, Doctor Watson?"

"Yes, I think so. Mary and I will be here all night, I think it best,"

"Weren't they separated?" Lestrade asked suddenly. "Doctor Hooper and Mr. Holmes?"

"They were, but that doesn't mean it won't have any effect on the heart." Watson replied. "Thank you for coming, Inspector."

"Not at all, you'll let me know…when the service is?" he shuffled his feet. "Like to pay my respects and all."

"Of course," Watson nodded, seeing him to the door.

In the parlor, Molly sat quietly, an open book on her lap. It appeared to anyone watching her that she was in shock. Perhaps she was. It was not every day you helped your husband fake his death.

 _Two Nights Prior, Switzerland_

 _Her muscles burned. Molly couldn't remember the last time her body ached as much as this. Her breath came in short puffs as she rolled Sherlock onto his back. She'd always be thankful her father had taught her how to swim. Watching Sherlock topple back from the top of the falls, she dove into the frigid waters and drug him from the water, up the rocks and behind the falls, well hidden from anyone looking for them. Sherlock had managed to avoid the rocky bottom; Moriarty had not been so fortunate. Overhead, she could hear Watson shouting faintly over the roar of the falls. Sherlock was concussed, but alive, thank heaven. The water was freezing cold, and Molly shivered, teeth chattering. From the back of the small cave, she then dragged a body bag, one that had been placed here for her. With a grunt, she pulled this one over to the mouth of the cave, and untying it, rolled the unfortunate corpse into the icy waters below. The face was bashed up, (the rocks would be the excuse for that), but the man was Sherlock's height, weight and similar hands. A ring had been placed on the unknown's finger, and Molly herself had dressed the body in one of Sherlock's tweed suits. The cap he had been wearing early would easily be lost in the churning waters, and anyone can get their hands on an inverness coat. Once the body floated up, joining Moriarty's corpse, Molly huddled, waiting behind the falls for Doctor Watson to come scrambling down the slick path. Her heart lurched sickeningly as she watched the good doctor look with horror at the two bodies floating face down in waters._

" _Damn you, Holmes," Watson choked out. "You always had to have the last word, you sodding…sodding idiot. What am I to tell your wife, you bastard? What am I to-" his shoulders slumped, and Molly watched as Watson began to cry. "What am I supposed to do now?"_

 _It took everything in her to not step out from behind the falls. A soft groan reminded her she was not alone. Soaked to the skin from jumping in the water and hauling Sherlock out, she crawled on her hands and knees to where she'd concealed him._

" _Is it over?" Sherlock asked softly, somewhat groggy._

" _Nearly. Watson is just outside, hush."_

 _Sherlock obeyed, shutting his eyes for the moment. Molly covered him with a blanket that had been in the body bag, and began cleaning the gash on his forehead._

" _You always did have a flair for the dramatic," she murmured._

" _Wasn't any other way and you know it."_

" _I only know you needed my help," she answered._

" _I said distinctly that I needed you," Sherlock said, a little more vigor and vim in his voice. His gaze softened as he studied her. "I still do."_

" _And you will have me, when all this is over," she answered, tearfully cleaning him up as best she was able. "I have to get back to London before Doctor Watson does."_

" _Mycroft will see to that," Sherlock promised. "Help me sit up now, Watson has gone to fetch the police, we can slip away while it's still raining. That should cover our tracks well enough. I'm glad you thought to wear your cycling trousers instead of your skirt."_

" _It seemed easiest, considering I had to fish you out," she answered, helping him to his feet, then letting him lean on her for support. "All right?"_

" _Yes," he grunted, his free arm feeling his torso. "Nothing's broken, I think it's only bruised."_

" _We won't know until I can look at you properly," Molly said. "Come on, think you can leg it?"_

" _I haven't a choice," he replied grimly._

 _Dusk was falling, so they were well hidden by the long shadows of trees as they slipped from their place of concealment, stealing hurried glances as they clambered back down into the icy water. At Molly's sharp cry at the water, Sherlock drew her closer as they waded deeper and deeper, almost up to their necks to cross to the other side. He held onto her, leading the way. One furtive glance behind, and he tugged her along, seeing her gaze was caught on the two corpses. Watson had towed them both to shore so they would not float downstream while he fetched the police._

 _Climbing up onto the river bank, Molly followed Sherlock, taking the body bag and wiping up their tracks in the mud. Watson would make a thorough search of the area, and they must not leave any clues for him to find. For now, Sherlock was dead to the world._

 _Some two miles away a carriage waited for them. Mycroft himself waited beside the driver, whom Sherlock recognized as his brother's manservant. Both of them looked miserable and wet through, trying to watch for them through the rain._

" _You are not hurt?" Mycroft asked, finally catching sight of Molly and Sherlock. He took Sherlock's free arm, helping him to the carriage._

" _I'm fine," Sherlock replied, shaking off his brother's concern. "Attend to Molly, she will catch pneumonia in this chill."_

" _We'll have you both on the train within the hour, Molly to London, Sherlock," Mycroft handed his brother a portfolio. "Everything is in there, I should prefer you not show it to your wife, for her protection at least."_

" _You are not coming with us?" Molly asked._

" _No," Mycroft shook his head. "It would be best if we all remained separate. Cuthbertson will take you to the station, a private train car is waiting in the yard, it will be attached to the train in two hours whether you are on it or not, I should prefer you be on it. As it is the last car, there is little chance of either of you being disturbed, but do lock the door and keep the shades drawn, for pity's sake. There is no use in all this skulking about if we can't keep the general public from seeing us."_

" _What if we are seen?" Molly asked._

" _No chance of that," Mycroft replied. "Several royal guards will be minding your car, if anyone is curious about a private car, they will assume it is one of the Royal family attending some conference, nothing more."_

" _It does seem like we'd be drawing a good deal of attention to ourselves," Molly objected._

" _Best place to hide is in plain sight," Sherlock answered._

" _Hmm, just mind you stay out of sight. Both of you." He was doing his level best to frown, but poor Molly was shivering from cold and the awful events of the evening. "Come, come," he touched her cheek. "Buck up. This will all be over soon enough. For now, get a move on, the train won't wait."_

" _Be safe," Molly said, reaching up and pressing his cheek. "Oh do be careful, Mycroft, whatever you do!"_

" _Watch out for her, Sherlock," Mycroft cautioned his brother, who merely nodded. After a moment, he held out his hand, and Sherlock grasped it, giving it a firm shake. Afterwards, Mycroft helped Molly up into the carriage, then gave his arm to Sherlock, knowing he was aching. "Godspeed to you both."_

" _And you, brother-mine," Sherlock replied before the driver slapped the reigns, urging the horses forward._

* * *

The news of Sherlock Holmes defeat of Professor Moriarty swept the city of London. Mycroft said that the wires from President Cleveland had finally stopped. The President had apparently been concerned, having heard rumors that Moriarty was planning some global catastrophe one country at a time. All that was thwarted though, and Cleveland sent them both letters of congratulations. Molly wasn't quite certain if it was good taste or not, sending someone a congratulatory letter on the death of their loved one. Mycroft shook his head.

"Americans," he muttered and tossed the letters into the fire.

The funeral came and went. Molly dressed in black as a good wife in mourning should. There was twittering among the higher circles in society of whether or not she should have been. After all, she and Mr. Holmes had been separated for so many years. Many expected her to go live with her brother in-law, but in the end, she shocked London for a second time, deciding to keep Baker Street. Doctor Watson still ran his practice from it, and while many of her memories of the house were not very good, it was where she and Sherlock had started their lives together.

Over the weeks that passed, Mary fussed and fidgeted over her, worrying that she was too thin.

"It is bad enough that Mrs. Hudson frets about me, now must you do it too?" Molly asked one day, irritable. The past few weeks had been trialsome enough, watching all of Sherlock's closest friends mourning, having to 'bury' her husband, and live with the ordeal of knowing that Sherlock was alive and well (somewhere in India, to be precise). She was exhausted, depressed, and on and off sick to her stomach. She chalked it up to the stress and worry of it all.

" _Someone_ should fret over you," Mary replied tartly. "You've lost all your color, and you can hardly keep anything substantial down, aside from beef broth or tea."

"I wasn't aware I had any color to begin with, working in the mortuary," Molly replied with a tight smile. "Anyway, I'm sure my appetite will return. I'm just so tired," the admission was somewhat of a relief, and she sagged lower in the chair. "I'm just so ill and tired," she murmured again. She wished for Sherlock to come back. She wished more than anything for it all to be over, and that he was home safe again.

"I know you are," Mary soothed, petting her head. "Maybe you ought to stay with your brother in-law, a turn in the country might do you some good."

"I couldn't, I've got work,"

"Oh hang the hospital, you've got yourself to worry about," Mary snapped. "What would Sherlock have wanted?"

Molly had no answer, she hadn't the heart to continue the façade that she and Sherlock were nothing to each other.

Watson, having heard Mary's scolding, stepping into the parlor. "What's this?" he asked. "Molly, are you unwell?"

"She hasn't been keeping food down, look at her, John, she's awfully pale." Mary answered, gesturing to the pathologist.

John knelt, peering up at Molly's drooping head. He lifted her chin, turning her head towards the lamplight. "Hmm, yes, I see what you mean. Trouble with death, it affects us all differently," he soothed her hand, squeezing gently.

"I'm sure it's just the mourning process," Molly answered softly. "I'll rest, I promise,"

"Good, a good holiday is what you need," John advised. "Stamford has been urging me to talk to you. Take a break. This is an awful shock, no one can get used to it, not…not for a long time." He fell silent then, lost in his own thoughts. Mary reached for him, gently squeezing his arm, remembering how John had looked that awful night by the falls.

Molly at last relented, agreeing that she might need to get away from London after all. Even though Sherlock was not dead, the fact that he was gone, that everyone believed he was dead, that she had no way of contacting him, no way of knowing if he was safe or not, was a dreadful strain. She missed him, and everything surrounding her reminded her of him.

That night, a telegram came from Mycroft, containing a brief note from Sherlock. She clutched the slip of paper, memorized it, and then placed it in-between the pages of her diary. He was still alive. He was still safe. Mycroft would not tell her where he was, or when he would be returning, only that events were happening. A few kinks in the works, but they were being mended and Sherlock was moving forward, slowly, in dismantling Moriarty's seemingly unending collection of spies, rebels and, for lack of better description, jack-booted thugs.

Sherlock was not the only one with troubles on his hands though.

The following week, Molly was at last packing for her holiday. She would go to Mycroft and Anthea's country estate. She'd stay for the winter there, return to London in the spring.

"It's just what you need," Mary advised, helping fold her things into her trunk. "A change of scene, a good French cook, not that Ellen isn't a good cook of course, but you know your brother in-law has that wonderful French chef, she'll be making you loads of good dishes, something to fatten you up,"

"You keep saying I've lost weight," Molly complained. "I think I've gained some back,"

Mary turned to study her friend as she moved about the room, selecting volumes from her shelves for the trip.

"Molly Elizabeth Hooper!" Mary gasped.

"What?"

Mary wasn't stupid. She might have sometimes played stupid, because it was easier, but she was a terribly observant person. Mary knew full well that while Molly and Sherlock were publicly separated, there was certainly still shared affection between them. Now, studying Molly carefully, there was evidence of how deeply that affection ran.

"Did you see Sherlock before he died?" Mary demanded.

Molly had such a strange look, as if she'd been caught. It certainly wasn't a question she expected. "I-I did see him before he left for Switzerland," she said. "Just for a moment."

"Molly Hooper, don't you dare lie to me, it takes longer than a moment," Mary stepped up to her, staring at the swell of Molly's belly. "To make _that_ ,"

Molly looked down, then tugged at the bodice of her gown, unable to look anywhere but the floor. "Does it show terribly?" she asked softly.

Gently, Mary guided her to a nearby chair, instructing her to sit. "I'm not angry at you, why should I be?" she murmured. "Just tell me when,"

"The night Sherlock left," Molly murmured softly. That was true enough, it was the night he'd left, but it certainly had not happened in London.

 **Four Months Prior, the Royal Car**

 _They made it to the empty train yard with just enough time. The Royal Guards, who knew just who was coming, ushered them inside with all haste, and a good deal of looking over shoulders, keeping a sharp eye out._

 _Inside the car, it was warm, a fire was burning brightly in the shining stove. The shades and curtains were drawn and fastened. A tray had just been placed on the side-table, the promise of a hot dinner was too good to pass up. There was a decanter of brandy, and a note from Mycroft telling them to help themselves. Sherlock poured her a glass immediately.  
"Drink this, it will warm you," he said, and she obeyed, handing him the rest which he finished. _

" _We'd better change out of these wet things," Molly said, face flushed from the heat of the room. Any embarrassment about changing in front of the other was gone, the necessity to get warm was urgent. Assistance was provided for knotted fastenings, and if a kiss or two was shared, well, that was perfectly fine. Welcome, even. So, too, was Sherlock carrying her to the curtained bed, where they remained for some time, undisturbed, happily so. Molly didn't mind so much, their reunion. It was welcome, truly. Too long they had put it off, and the night's tumultuous events had only reminded them how desperately they loved each other, and that time was fleeting. There may not be another moment for a long time, and neither wanted to even consider that reality just yet._

Mary's voice broke through the beautiful memory, and Molly blinked.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Molly asked.

"I asked you if Mycroft knows or not?" Then Mary rolled her eyes. "No of course he doesn't. He'd have a platoon out here by now to escort you."

"I only just realized it myself a week ago. My monthly has been irregular the last six months, I think worry for everything."

"I'm sorry," Mary reached for her hand then. "I don't mean to pick at you," she smiled, quite feelingly. "How good though, for you to have a memory of Sherlock now,"

Molly bowed her head, and the full realization of what had happened, her position, and the relief of someone else knowing, at last struck her and she began to cry. "I wish he was here."

"Oh dear, dear, I'm sure he should have loved to know,"

Molly dearly wanted to tell Mary that someday, Sherlock _would_ know. She wanted the whole rotten affair to be over. If she stayed in London, everything would come out, and it would be an awful mess. No, going to the country was much better, safer. Besides, she didn't dare risk working in her condition. Molly was afraid that anything too strenuous might cause another miscarriage.

"Promise me you won't tell Mycroft, let me," Molly implored. "Please say you'll keep it a secret."

"Of course I will," pressing her forehead, Mary smiled softly. "Let's get you packed."

"Do you think Doctor Watson knows?" Molly asked after a moment.

"Probably not," Mary shrugged. "He's a doctor, but he's still a man."

"He's observant," Molly replied.

"True enough," Mary agreed, folding a nightgown. "But he never goes looking for something he hasn't thought of."

"I suppose."

* * *

 **The following day…**

"I expect you to spend your mornings lazing about," Watson said to Molly, wagging a finger at her, pretending to be stern. "I'll be checking up on you, to see that you're resting up properly, and eating well too, I don't want to learn you're taking nothing but broth and tea. You don't have the constitution of a Consulting Detective you know,"

At his joke, they exchanged smiles.

"I promise I'll behave," Molly answered and pressed his cheek. "Thank you, Doctor Watson, you've been so good to me, I hope it isn't too much, my leaving Baker Street to you to look after."

"Not at all," he shook his head. "No I am…I am happy to be here. The practice is running very well, and I won't be alone, not long anyway."

Molly beamed. "Oh do tell me that you're proposing soon! Oh don't leave Mary in suspense!"

"I shan't, so long as you don't breathe a word of it to her!" he reprimanded, laughing.

"No I promise, I'll let her write me all about it."

"Yes, I'll see to it she tells you just as soon as she knows," Watson smiled.

"Dear Watson," Molly reached up, thumbing his cheek, her palm warm. "Be happy."

His cheeks tinged pink, and the points of his mustache pointed upwards, a small, shy smile forming. "I should say the same to you," He accepted her kiss on the cheek, returning it. "Anyway, you won't be gone long, just until spring."

Molly diverted her gaze to the floor briefly. "Yes of course." In truth, she wasn't certain if she would return to London. Not until Sherlock returned. As happy as she was working, she did not know if she wanted to continue, not at the moment at any rate, not with a baby on the way. Perhaps she would feel differently later, but for now, it was all too overwhelming.

"I'll see you out," Watson said, and took her hand. She made to withdraw, about to reprimand him that she was not made of glass, but he held fast, squeezing gently, his blue-grey eyes crinkled as he smiled warmly at her. "Let me fuss, just this once," he implored and so she let him.

Mycroft's carriage was waiting by the curb, her trunks already delivered to the station.

"Write Mary as soon as you're settled," Watson instructed her. He helped her up into the carriage, but did not let go of her hand. Molly turned, wondering, and Watson stepped closer. "You _must_ rest, Molly, take care of yourself. I am not so unobservant as you think." His gaze fell to her middle, covered at the moment by the capelet she wore.

She felt tears spring to her eyes, and reaching forward, embraced Watson. "Don't be angry with me, please."

" _Never_ ," he murmured. "Now get along with you," he gently shook her off, fighting back the urge to grin. "Before we cause a scandal."

She laughed then, her smile reaching her teary eyes. "Tell Mary I'll write tomorrow," she promised as the door was shut. She leaned out the window, grasping his hand. "It seems so strange to part ways, even if it is for a little while. We've been a part of each other's lives for so long."

"You may write me as well, if you like," he said suddenly. "Keep me informed of your symptoms."

"I will," she promised.

The driver slapped the reigns and the carriage lurched forward, forcing Molly to let go of John's hand.

"Goodbye Watson!" she called over the noise of the street.

"Goodbye! Goodbye!" he waved, his hand still stretched out. He felt his heart give a small sickening flop. He disliked so many sudden changes. Losing Holmes had been a terrible shock. Life would never be the same without him, now that Molly was leaving, he felt as if Baker Street would never be right again. Of course he had ascertained Molly's condition. He'd wondered why she'd kept it to herself, perhaps shyness of the subject, or concern at what people might think. A year ago, perhaps Watson might have scolded Holmes to let Molly alone to her own life. Now, he simply wanted to keep what he'd come to consider his family together. Molly needed time, to be sure. Time to come to grips with Holmes death, time to face the idea of being a mother, a widowed mother, at that. Molly Hooper Holmes would need her friends and family. Watson wanted her to know that he supported her, that he'd gladly look after her just as if she were his own sister. The idea of Mary and Molly and him, all together in one house, a baby too, it made John smile. But Molly still had her brother in-law, who was as fierce a protector as any. No, she did not need another protector, she needed friends. John would happily fill that role, if she would let him.

"Oh Holmes," Watson sighed heavily, finding his eyes beginning to sting from unshed tears. "She needs you, you idiot."


	10. Waiting

_So it took me forever to find a suitable house that Mycroft and Anthea would live in, and then the question of course, where would they live. West Sussex is usually my choice of English countryside for Mythea. The house is based on Wray Castle (which is located in Cumbria, in the North West of England. (I recommend looking it up, it's crazy beautiful)._

* * *

The train to her brother in-law's country estate was a crowded affair. Although the coachman and footman had done their best to protect her from the crowds, she still felt like a tinned sardine, which wasn't their fault. Molly knew very well she was irritable, and her condition wasn't helping any. Not that she was enormous at this particular stage of her pregnancy, but she was terribly sensitive to people standing so near. The child was her one last reminder of Sherlock. If anything were to happen, this baby would be her consolation. She was fiercely protective at the moment. Sensing her discomfort, the coachman jogged ahead, securing a first class seat for her, and making sure it was empty of passengers.

Once seated, the footman stayed at her side, plying her with biscuits and tea, not saying a word. Upon closer inspection of the footman (or rather, peeling off the terribly fake looking mutton-chops and mustache), she realized it was Wiggins, one of Sherlock's Irregulars.

"Don't be mad, Missus," Wiggins implored. "Mr. Holmes asked before he left I look after you specially. It weren't nobody else but me he asked, excepting I think Rosie snuck into the baggage car."

"Rosie?" Molly frowned.

"Little girl Mr. Holmes found few years back. She's twelve now, all grown up."

"Hardly," Molly shook her head. "Go and fetch her, please, Wiggins. She needn't ride alone, and certainly not in the baggage car."

Wiggins was loath to leave her until the coachman returned, but he finally did, not bothering to give the driver an explanation as to his missing facial hair. The poor coachman looked bewildered to Molly, who could only shrug.

Wiggins returned with the child who looked far from the age of twelve.

"She is near seven, I'd wager," Molly said as soon as Wiggins returned with Rosie.

"I'm not!" the girl insisted. "I'm small is all. I was born 1875, in spring!"

"Mister Holmes thought she was little too," Wiggins answered with a grin. The coachman, meanwhile, looked at the child with some degree of alarm and confusion.

"Never fear, Mr. Brown," Molly said, seeing the driver's expression. "My former husband had a little troop of helpers, perfectly harmless. This is Mr. Wiggins, and this is Rosie."

"There will be work about the house for Mr. Wiggins," Mr. Brown said at last. "But what can a little girl do on a great estate? The Holmeses do not entertain in the winter time, at least they shan't be this winter on account of…" he trailed off, unsure how to put that the family was in mourning.

"She will be my companion," Molly answered stoutly.

"What, a little girl?" Mr. Brown asked, baffled.

"Certainly." Molly answered. "I imagine in a few months' time I shan't be able to do very much walking, Rosie shall be my helper, won't you, Rosie?"

"I can't fix hair or the like, but I can read," the child answered.

"There you see?" Molly turned to Mr. Brown. "She and I shall get along perfectly well."

"What will Lord Holmes say?" Brown wanted to know.

"Leave him to me," Molly replied, and patted the seat for Rosie to sit beside her.

 **Hart Castle, West Sussex**

Hart Castle was recently purchased, to society's great shock, by Lord Holmes for his new wife. Even more shocking than his purchase of the castle, was that his wife was an actress. Most people assumed it was because he did not like to put such a woman in his family's estate. Mycroft did not often like to rock the steady and dependably predictable boat of society, but there were times he did not give a flying fig what people would say. It was his belief that his wife who had worked very hard to become an excellent actress, had lived long enough in the city. He decided she ought to have the most beautiful house one could find. The country was always pleasant, and Mycroft was a sporting man, so he did not mind having a house in the country and the town house for the work week. The country house, however was not what Molly pictured Anthea to choose.

"Isn't it terrifically dramatic?" Anthea asked, laughing at Molly's expression as she stepped down from the carriage. "It's like something out of a Bronte novel."

"I half expect there to be a mad woman in the attic," Molly agreed. "But if you are happy here, then I am pleased."

"I am," Anthea said, linking arms. They waited for the men to unload Molly's things. She kept tilting her head up, up, up, until she was sure her hat would fall off. "You can't see them now, but in the summer roses grow up the walls, and I've had apple trees planted in the gardens, and nut trees to line the paths."

"It's a bit of you and my brother in-law," Molly smiled, understanding the stern, Gothic lines, sturdy and imposing. But the furnishings, the gardens and the trees, these were the softening touches that Anthea had applied and made it her own.

"Come along, Mycroft is waiting inside." At Molly's questioning look, Anthea laughed. "I told him to, he's been suffering an awful cold lately and is only just starting to feel better."

"Good heavens," Molly hurried along, Rosie trotting behind them.

In the doorway lingered Mycroft's lithe, imposing frame. His nose was somewhat red, and he held a kerchief in his hands. He still bent and kissed her cheek, then held her at arm's length, studying her. Slowly, much to her amusement, realization dawned on him, and he struggled to keep his features in check. Clearly, he was surprised at Molly's condition, horrified still, that she had intended to travel unaccompanied in such a state. He looked with some surprise at Rosie, and with some annoyed, knowing look at Wiggins, who came in after, scuffing his boots across the rug.

He stared until she finally tugged at the bodice of her almost-too-snug gown, uncomfortable.

"Honestly, Mycroft, it isn't that shocking," Molly said at last.

"You still should have sent me a cable. I could have sent a guard for you."

"A guard!" Molly laughed. "Whatever for? Mr. Brown was with me, and Wiggins, as it happens."

"Traveling in your condition," Mycroft sniffed, clearly not listening to her.

"I'm not made of glass; I've still got months before I enter my confinement. I was perfectly safe," Molly said, in answer to his spluttering about the dangers of travel.

"What if you fell from the platform, or you tripped through the door, or a man with a cart hadn't seen you-"

"Oh for heaven's sake, what if the sky falls, or the earth opens up and swallows us all-" Anthea shook her head. "It doesn't do any good to fret now. She's here now, safe and sound, and a sight for sore eyes," she smiled at Molly, reaching for her hand. "We're glad you've come at last, I think this strain is too much for you to bear alone."

"I am glad to be out of London," Molly admitted. For a moment, she thought she might burst into tears, but she managed to keep her rattled emotions somewhat in check.

"Come through for tea and sandwiches, you must be famished," Anthea tugged her along through to the parlor, Mycroft following behind, still muttering about the dangers of travel and his not being consulted at all. Rosie, after a quick glance at Wiggins, trotted after the group, making sure to straighten her dress and remove her bedraggled bonnet.

"What will you do with the child?" Mycroft asked, once tea was served. Molly looked to the child seated beside her, touching her limp hair.

"I'll look after her of course, she'll be a good companion for me during my confinement."

"And after?"

"Then I expect she'll be handy to have in the house," Molly answered. "She's one of Sherlock's Irregulars."

Mycroft could see Molly had already formed an attachment to the child and would not be swayed otherwise, so he let it be. "What about Wiggins?"

"Oh I cannot be bothering your men for something," Molly answered. "He can be for my use, so I needn't disturb yours from their work."

"That is what they are-" Anthea touched her husband's arm, a silent reprimand. Obediently, he shut his mouth. "Well then," he said at last. "If you are certain. I think there is spare valet livery downstairs, the housekeeper will show him where." Wiggins didn't look too keen on wearing a uniform, but he supposed if he was to stay and look after Mrs. Holmes, he'd put up with it.

She must have been exhausted, for Molly went to bed early, and did not wake until very late the next day. At least, it was late to her. Nearly half past ten in the morning! The gentle tapping on her door roused her, and when she saw the clock on the mantle, quickly sat up, aghast that she had been allowed to sleep for so long. The door opened, revealing not the maid, as Molly expected, but Mycroft, looking quite meek, albeit concerned. He shut the door behind him, waiting for her to invite him nearer, which she did, covering her mouth with a yawn.

"Why on earth did you and Anthea let me sleep so late? The morning is entirely wasted!"

"Anthea is still abed," Mycroft shrugged. "She always sleeps late; I expect old habits from the stage. That little Irregular of Sherlock's is out in the garden amusing herself. You, however, needed the rest," he took the edge of the bed, inclining his head towards her. "Sister-mine you will suffer a nervous breakdown if you keep pushing yourself as you do."

"I'm not pushing," she shrugged, picking at the blanket. "I'm here to rest, I'm away from London and work and…" she shrugged, losing her words.

"Away from everything that reminds you of Sherlock," Mycroft finished.

She nodded, miserable.

"Wiggins found me early this morning, he's been asked by our mutual friend to keep a close eye on you."

"Yes, he'd said as much on the train," Molly nodded. "Is it so serious?"

Mycroft nodded, quite grave. "Don't expect letters from him, not through the post at any rate. If he tries to contact you, it will be through me," he paused. "I trust you'll remember that when you send any replies. I'm afraid any correspondence will have to be checked, coming or going, so any conversations won't be terribly private, you'll have to mind what you say."

"No of course," Molly nodded. "I shouldn't expect any less. Do we know where he is?"

"I do, but you don't," Mycroft patted her hand before getting to his feet. "Come along now. Breakfast will set you to rights. Shall I send up that little urchin to help you?"

"Her name is Rosie," Molly scolded.

"Very well," he replied, with a great pretense of rolling his eyes. "Shall I send her up?"

"No, I can dress myself, I'll be down shortly."

"By the way, speaking of correspondence," he reached into his pocket, setting down a folded note beside her. "From our mutual friend. No replies can be sent at the moment." With that he left her to dress, shutting the door quietly behind him.

She snatched up the paper, jumping out of bed to read it by the window where the light was better,

' _Dearest Molly,_

 _Safe and sound, for the time being. As this will be read by a dozen or so of the Queen's men and my brother, I shall simply say that I think of you often._

 _Yours,_

 _SH'_

She turned the note over, just to be sure there wasn't any other message. Unfortunately, there was not. Thumbing over his signature, she heaved a sigh. No reference to where he was or how long he would be there. Mycroft had said she couldn't even reply yet. Even if she could, she wasn't certain what she could say. She couldn't tell him of her condition, not through the post. What if it distracted him and he made a lethal mistake? What if it made him take unnecessary risks to get home sooner? No, this knowledge was best kept under wraps for now. He would simply have to wait until he came home to know. But that could be years! She blinked quickly, trying to take away the sting of tears beginning to fall.

Resting her hand over her belly, she looked out the window. Waiting, it seems, was all that she could do for the moment. As a woman living in a society dominated by men, Molly was used to waiting. Waiting for her husband to straighten up, waiting for a university to accept her, waiting for Moriarty to slip up, for Sherlock to realize he loved her. This shouldn't have felt any different, waiting for him to come home. Yet it felt so much worse, and Molly suddenly felt as if she would rather crawl out of her skin than be cooped up all day.


	11. Hope

"How is she?"

"Your wife is fine, Mr. Holmes."

"You've known me long enough to use my given name, I'd think."

The woman rolled her eyes. "Sherlock," her tone warning, he gave a smile, despite the weariness in his eyes, a sign that the old Sherlock was still there, somewhere beneath the gloom and exhausted façade he wore. "More to the point, how are you?"

"Fine, I'd be better if I could finish…" he drifted off, staring up at the wall of the dingy little flat he was hiding out in. Papers spread from one end to the other, a dented kettle sat on the woodstove long gone cold.

"Finish what?"

"Anything," he sighed heavily.

"You could come home,"

"Mary," Sherlock's tone was warning.

"Hush!" she ordered, remaining in the shadows, out of the sight of the windows.

"I can't come home, not until all this is over and done with, there are still-"

"There are always bad people," Mary cut him off. "There always will be, Sherlock, you and I both know that. But Molly needs you, right now."

He looked at her, alarmed. "You said-"

"I said she was fine, she's safe, no harm will come to her, but that doesn't mean she doesn't need you, Sherlock." Mary knelt down, still in shadow, reaching across the space between them, grasping his arm. "You've done a tremendous service, you've dismantled Moriarty's web to almost completion, what is holding you back?"

"Moran," Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his hair. "He was Moriarty's last contact, sharpshooter, Watson would know of him, they were once stationed together."

"A marksman?" she asked, curious.

Sherlock nodded, grim. "The best. Now that Moriarty is dead, he's a gun for hire, there have been several assassination plots uncovered, foreign Royals, mostly-"

"But in this charged political climate, an assassination could mean the start of a war," Mary realized. The Royal houses of Europe were joined, an assassination, by a shooter from England, could mean the disruption of that peaceful treaty, and there had been enough bad words and bad feelings amongst the royals for some time, a murdered royal could very well be the tipping point to send everything into chaos. "Who do you think is his target?"

Sherlock got to his feet, turning to the near wall covered in newspaper clippings. "Who in Europe is the most vulnerable? Not England, the shock would be dreadful, but not detrimental to moral, but there are more than enough heirs to sit on the throne, and we also have Mycroft to happily guide whichever monarch takes that position. Russia is its own enemy, it's only a matter of time before they ruin themselves,"

"A smaller country then, someone who would have the most to lose, the hardest time finding allies,"

"Austria, or Germany," Sherlock answered. "Empress Elisabeth is preoccupied with everything but ruling, and His Royal Highness is a political reactionary who allows his mother to guide his hand in nearly every matter,"

"Well they've got a son, the Crown Prince, quite popular amongst the people," Mary said, thoughtful. "And Austria has an ally, you can't be so dense as to forget."

"Yes of course I know, but the point is who is Hungary's ally? It's a powder-keg waiting to erupt, her countrymen's rights have been stifled in a regime none of them wanted for over two decades. Besides, the Crown Prince is too busy with his affair with Mary Vetsera to be bothered with taking the throne,"

"Vetsera!" Mary was surprised to say the least. "She's barely seventeen! I thought he'd taken up with that actress, oh what is her name, Kaspar!"

"Oh that's his first mistress, can't the son of a king have two?" Sherlock waved his hand.

"I imagine his Royal Highness is less than pleased," Mary pondered. "Nor what the people want to hear. Just the sort of thing an assassin might look for, dissent amongst the people, anger at the royal family,"

"Especially when it is rumored that the Crown Prince has written to His Holiness to request an annulment of his marriage, several times," Sherlock agreed. "Naturally, that is just a rumor, but my source is almost never wrong. It's causing problems in the Royal family, not simply for the Hapsburg, but those related by marriage. How does it look for one rebellious royal to demand illegal separations? I am sure theirs is not the only unhappy marriage spurned by affairs."

"It would severe any alliances, _necessary_ ones."

"Hmm. It isn't as if Belgium has any prospects to boost the alliance with Austria either. Rudolf is the only male heir, his sisters are married off to foreign princes, and the only daughter Hungary has is madly in love with a Baron."

"She's still not yet of age, they could always force the marriage."

"Rudolf wouldn't have her anyway," Sherlock shook his head.

"So?"

"So, a man, restricted on all sides, without support of family, no political power aside from the radical newspaper he anonymously writes articles for, and has divided his affections between an actress and a silly-hearted seventeen-year-old who doesn't care a wit if people know she's a mistress, what do you think he would do?"

Mary was silent for a moment, disliking where his line of thought was leading, but Sherlock continued: "What do you think would happen to a dual-monarchy under one bombastic emperor, who is assassinated, and the only heir is a reckless youth who has been ignored most of his life, writing for a newspaper that is considered to incite dissent among the already stifled people?"

"War!" Mary gasped. She shut her eyes, horrified at the thought. There would be no corner of the world untouched by so many far-reaching countries. "A war across the world…" she murmured, shocked. Gathering herself, she took a step closer. "So the emperor is the next target?"

"Possibly, probably," Sherlock answered. "So you see why I cannot come home, not yet,"

"Let me stay and help," Mary insisted. "I can write to John, I'll tell him I'm caring for a sick relative,"

"No, Mary, it's far too dangerous-"

"Dangerous!" Mary shook her head. "I work for you brother, this certainly isn't the first assassination plot I've heard of,"

"It is the first that could trigger a global war," Sherlock replied glibly. "Are you prepared for those consequences if we fail?"

"We?"

He sighed heavily, shrugging. "I need help," he admitted quietly. "I dislike taking anyone along, but I do know I cannot be everywhere, nor can I trust anyone. Frankly, I prefer to ask you over Irene Adler, if it came to that I expect I'd have to."

"You can't trust her anyway," Mary replied, putting on her gloves and scarf. "Let me write to John through Mycroft, we have a channel that is secure."

"Good. Send a note to Molly as well, if you can,"

"What's the message?"

"Just tell them it's my usual message," Sherlock answered, turning back to face the wall. "'Alive and well, all my love'."

Mary studied him a moment longer, some sorrow behind her eyes that remained hidden from Sherlock. He turned only when he realized she had not yet left. "Mary?"

"Sorry, going now, I'll see the message is sent."

"If…if she sends a reply…"

"I'll make sure you get it directly," Mary promised. "I'll go now, watch from the window for me," and she hurried out, down the stairs and into the darkness.

 **Hart Castle, England**

Time passed, Molly reached her confinement, much to her chagrin. She hated being cooped up, despite the staff fully prepared and more than happy to see to her every need (it was not every day there was a baby born at Hart Castle). Wiggins spent his days in the kitchen, waiting for Molly to send for him if she needed something. Rosie was at her side constantly. She disliked being sent from the room if private things were to be discussed, and left only if Molly asked her to. Anthea, ever the dear, happily bustled to and from London, fetching whatever she thought Molly might need for the nursery. Mycroft, ever the worrier, never stayed away from Hart Castle more than two days, and sent frequent telegrams.

"I'm not an invalid," Molly insisted, then winced, feeling the pain in her lower back. Rosie scurried to fetch a pillow for the chair.

"What is it?" Mycroft was halfway to the pull on the wall.

"Don't you dare," Molly held out her hand to stop him. "I just need to sit, thank you, Rosie. I think my brother in-law wishes to speak to me in private, why don't you go and see if cook needs help?"

"Yes Mrs. Holmes," the little girl glanced over to Mycroft, then left the room.

"She does not trust me," Mycroft remarked as soon as the child was out of earshot.

"She's protective of me," Molly corrected.

"You're fond of her."

"I am," Molly nodded. "I might have her sent to school, when the term begins next year, she's awfully clever…seems a waste for her not to." Molly winced again, feeling the baby kick.

Mycroft looked on with concern. "Doctor Watson will examine you when he comes," he declared at last.

Surprised to hear the doctor's name, Molly looked up. "John? He's not visiting is he?"

"Certainly, I invited him. With his fiancée off tending to an ill relative, unlikely to be home until the end of January, he's alone in London. I imagine even with his practice he is extremely bored."

"That's rather insightful of you."

"Hmm."

Molly frowned at her brother in-law scrutinizing him. "Mycroft, if you wanted a live-in doctor, I am sure we could have found one in the village."

"That hack?"

"Mycroft!" Molly scolded.

"He is hardly a specialist from London."

"Neither is John Watson," Molly added with a wry grin.

"Be that as it may," Mycroft acknowledged with a roll of his eyes. "You _are_ comfortable with him."

"Yes," Molly agreed. "But why is he staying? Not that I mind, but the only reason you'd have him stay is if you were planning on going somewhere-"

"It is business," Mycroft answered, clipped.

"Indeed, business that would involve a 'dead' man –"

"Hush!" Mycroft commanded. He crossed the room, shutting the doors to the parlor before turning back to face her. "Yes," he confirmed, once certain the room was secure. "I am going away. I have been informed of a possible assassination, it is a matter of duty that I be there."

"Where is he?!" Molly asked, nearly pouncing on him when he at last came to stand beside her.

"You know very well I cannot say," Mycroft seated himself, guiding her back down to her own chair as well. "I will see to it that he writes you a letter, a proper one, and I myself shall bring it to you, it needn't go through the usual channels. I think some privacy ought to be allowed in this case," he decided. "But until then, not a word should be said. I am going away on business, and I shall return within a few weeks."

"A few weeks!" Molly worried her hands. She was due by the end of the month! "Something is the matter, Mycroft, and I won't pretend that I'm not worried, I've been worried ever since Sherlock left. You said you would remain here, through my confinement, you'd stay for Sherlock's sake-"

"And it is for that reason I am leaving now," Mycroft interrupted. "For his safety. Things are happening that I cannot speak of, suffice to say, the way we live, the way of the world, it is hanging precariously at the moment."

Molly sat, resigned and clearly disliking it. "I'm sorry," she finally sniffled, heels of her palms pressed against her eyes. "I don't mean to pout; I feel as if nothing is certain anymore…I feel alone and..."

"You aren't alone, sister-mine," Mycroft took her hands, thumbing circles over them. "You shall have Doctor Watson, and Anthea here with you, and even that little Irregular of Sherlock's has been a help to you, and will continue to do so."

"She has a name," Molly said, glum and stubborn.

"So she does," Mycroft gave her hands a quick squeeze, then stood, pausing only to press a kiss to her forehead. "I must go and pack. If all goes well, you'll see me shortly. It won't be more than two weeks, three at the very most if we are delayed."

He turned to go when Molly suddenly grasped his hand. "Please," she pleaded. "Please be careful."

"My dear, I am not the one you need to worry for," his smile was far too brave. "If you've a letter for Sherlock, I suggest you slip it into my trunk after dinner, I'll be leaving first thing in the morning. Just remember, mum's the word."

"Mum's the word," Molly repeated, nodding.

 **Later that afternoon…**

"How good to see you Doctor Watson, though I am sad that Miss Morstan is not on your arm," Anthea greeted the good doctor who pressed her hand.

"She is looking after a dying relative," Watson excused. "Her aunt lives abroad, and her companion is ill-equipped, so my fiancée is the best option. Molly," he turned then, grasping Molly's outstretched hands, bringing her into the circle of his arms. He had not intended such an affectionate embrace, but at the moment, Molly looked as though she needed a hug. "Everything all right?" he asked, noting the tears in her eyes.

"I'm fine, just tired," she smiled, waving a hand at her tears. "Never mind," her eyes softened. "It is good to see you again. How is Mrs. Hudson?"

"She's perfectly fine. On holiday in the North, visiting her son and daughter in-law."

"How nice!" Molly answered. "And Mary? You've had a letter from her, I expect?"

"Indeed, she said that her aunt is not well at all-"

"Yes, I heard, she's not away long is she?"

John shook his head. "She doesn't think she'll be away, not much more than two weeks, three at the most."

"Really?" Molly frowned. "That soon?"

"Mmhm. I recall quite specifically, her wording was very precise, let me see," he paused to recollect exactly what Mary had written. "'Absolutely everything will finally be sorted out within a few weeks, and we'll be home again,'," he shook his head. "She said for me to tell you so as well, exactly that, don't know why,"

 _'We'_ That word caught her attention, and she fidgeted her hands, feeling her heart begin to race. Mary knew Sherlock was alive! Why else would Mary be away at such a time? She worked for Mycroft, she had told Molly so herself. And now she was helping Sherlock! She was sending her a message through John's letter, Molly was certain of it. Mary was always precise in her letters, she did not waste time on frivolous messages for John to pass on to her. She would have simply written to Molly if it were really a dying relative. But a message through her fiancé to her friend, that was something else, a passing comment with a deeper meaning, one that John might not catch on to.

Realizing she still had not spoken, Molly put on a smile, shrugging. "She and I are good friends now, of course I should know, and I expect she'll be bringing the companion home as well?"

"Probably," John answered, following Anthea through to the parlor, then glanced back to Molly who followed just a step behind. "Yes of course, as a matter of fact she'd said specifically she'd be bringing home the companion, and hoped there would be a place at Baker Street for them."

It was too much for her, Molly felt her knees buckle, and she reached for the back of a nearby chair.

"Good heavens!" Anthea gasped, turning to see Molly nearly topple forwards. John caught her, easing her down to the nearest chair. "Shall I fetch the smelling salts?"

"I'm fine," Molly waved her away. "I'm clumsy…or tired, I'm-" she couldn't speak, too overcome. Mary was telling her that Sherlock was coming home, home! It couldn't have been true, how could it be? She didn't' dare hope, but what other meaning could Mary have? All at once she burst into tears, unable to stop herself. She stuttered out an apology, trying to find a handkerchief.

"Think nothing of it," Watson replied, befuddled but concerned, he handing her his own kerchief. "There-there, dry your eyes. Mary will be home soon, and while Mycroft is gone, I shall look after you, hm? I'll even sneak you pots of your favorite jam," he smiled encouragingly, to which Molly gave a short laugh.

"I wish you the best then, sneaking anything past cook,"

"Likely she'd give them to you anyway," Anthea added. "Never mind, Molly, you'll feel better once you've had something to eat."

"I'm not hungry," she shook her head, but Watson fetched her a plate anyway.

"Doctor's orders," he reminded her when she made to protest. "You'll do your child no favors starving yourself. I expect you to have a good dinner as well."

She managed to choke down the finger sandwiches John had given her, and even drank her tea before finally excusing herself, complaining of a headache.

Upstairs, with trembling hands, she took out her writing desk. It had been too long since she'd been able to properly write anything to Sherlock. With the promise that it would pass directly from Mycroft's hands' to Sherlock's, and armed with the knowledge that he may very well be home in just a few short weeks, Molly felt as if she were flying. She settled in to write, taking up every available space on the page. She told him about how much she liked Hart Castle, of Rosie and Wiggins' devotion to her, and the care and affection of Mycroft and Anthea, of her friendship with Watson and Mary. Lastly, she confessed her own secret to him, that she was pregnant. It seemed once she got started, she couldn't stop herself. There didn't seem to be any use to hide it now.

' _-I never concealed this fact out of shame, but out of fear that someone would discover your position, that it would compromise you when your work is so important. This letter is already far too long, and Mycroft will complain of the space it takes in his suitcase I am sure, but he has promised it will go directly into your hands from him, no one else shall read it. I have received a message, one I hope is true, that you are coming home soon, perhaps the end of January. Is this true? Will you be here in time? I know why you must stay away, I know why you did what you did, why this pretense must still be carried out, and I could not be more proud of you. My Sherlock Holmes, the World's only Consulting Detective, my husband, and soon-to-be father of our child. My beloved, will you come home? Until we meet again, I am, as always, yours,_

 _Molly Holmes.'_

Ink dried, she sealed the letter up in an envelope bearing only Sherlock's initials. She sent for Rosie, who came right away.

"You know where Lord and Lady Holmes bedroom is?"

"Of course," the girl replied.

"Take this letter, and slip it into Lord Mycroft's suitcase, he's leaving tomorrow."

Rosie didn't ask, only did as she was told. She returned in a few moments, out of breath. "The valet almost caught me, but I gave him the slip. Tucked the letter in-between the trousers and shirtwaists."

"Good," Molly sighed, feeling a tremendous weight off her shoulders. "Good."

"What's it for, Mrs. Holmes? The letter I mean?" Rosie asked.

"Don't ask questions, Rosie," Molly ordered. She turned, her expression softened. "It's only that I cannot say yet, it is a private matter."

"I'm good at finding things out," Rosie answered, to which Molly smiled. She caressed the girls' head, smoothing down her cheek.

"I know you are, dear, you've always been so clever, no doubt you'll have sorted all of this out before long, but if you do, I want you to promise me you'll keep it a secret."

"What, from everyone?"

"Everyone," Molly repeated.

Rosie didn't like the serious tone of the conversation, that her mistress might be in danger, or that she knew something terrible was going to happen. For a moment, she didn't know what to do or say, for Mrs. Holmes was so serious and quiet. "Shall I read to you, Mrs. Holmes?" she offered.

"Yes," Molly's smile was gentle, tired. "Yes, help me sit down, and then go and find a book to read, that will keep us occupied."

"It's only a few hours until the dressing gong," Rosie reminded her. "That's not long at all."

"Sometimes, hours can feel like days, and weeks might as well be years," Molly said, more to herself. She blinked, shaking off her worries for a moment. Patting Rosie's hand, she smiled brightly. "Go and fetch your book now, go on, I'll wait here." Molly waited for Rosie to turn and hurry back out of the room, up to the servant's quarters where she slept. Alone with her thoughts, Molly stared into the crackling fire, her mind swimming with what-ifs and unanswerable questions, with secrets she wasn't able to tell to anyone. Molly felt as if she were going mad herself. Too little and too much happening at once, she gave an annoyed snort, quite unable to move from her chair.

"Would that I had a pistol," she muttered, rubbing her forehead. "I can see now why he shot that bloody wall back home..."


	12. Trade One Tragedy for Another

**Mayerling, Austria**

Sherlock and Mary stood in the open doorway of the Crown-Prince Rudolf's bedroom. They stared, unmoving, baffled at the scene before them. Without making a sound, Sherlock finally moved, closing the door behind them.

"Risk a light," he said to Mary, who obeyed, lighting a candle at the bedside.

Between them the Crown-Prince Rudolf half-sat, half- sprawled over the body of Mary Vetsera, both quite decidedly, and unexpectedly, dead.

"Do not touch anything."

They both jumped at the sudden voice. Mycroft stepped from the shadows.

"What happened?" Mary insisted.

"I could not tell you," Mycroft answered her honestly. "I came upon the scene myself only moments before you did. I had a hunch something was amiss."

"As did I," Sherlock answered. "Why are you here?"

"I got your cable, brother-mine," Mycroft answered.

"Gentlemen," Mary broke in. "I appreciate your hunches, it has certainly answered some questions while drawing up even more complicated ones, questions, I might add, we ought to ponder elsewhere. I suggest the three of us leave quietly, before we are discovered. There is nothing to be done here, and nothing we can do or say without drawing suspicion to ourselves and making the situation irrevocably worse."

The two men looked to her, and then Mycroft nodded.

"We are to do nothing, inspect none of this?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

"What are we to inspect, Sherlock?" Mycroft hissed. "This is not how we had anticipated things to go! Certainly not him, and definitely not her!"

"We still don't know how they came to this end," Sherlock pressed. "You heard one gunshot, did you not?"

"Yes,"

"And yet, there are two bullet holes," Sherlock pointed. He bent near Mary Vetsera, studying her.

"Again, I concur," Mycroft nodded. "I don't see why you are confused."

"They will destroy the evidence!"

"Evidence of what, do be sensible!" Mycroft retorted, voice raising a fraction, still quiet enough they would not be heard.

"Were they both murdered or was it a murder-suicide? Why was there only one gunshot if there are two bullet wounds? If they _were_ murdered, why?" Sherlock rattled off question after question, until Mary covered his mouth to shut him up.

"We don't know any of that, and right now, we don't have the time," Mary interrupted him softly. "I do know that his manservant will be coming up at any moment, and if we three are not gone, we will be framed for the assassination of the crown-prince, and a Baroness, now let's _go!_ " She tugged on Sherlock's arm, who was still staring down Mycroft. Finally, both brothers relented.

"We must not risk endangering Miss Morstan," Mycroft murmured. "She will have a family, soon enough."

"A husband, at any rate, Mr. Holmes," Mary replied.

Sherlock bent near Vetsera, inspecting the wound at her temple. Part of her face was covered in what looked like soot. "He muffled it with something," Sherlock murmured. "The killer wrapped the gun in something," he began to search for a cloth or stole that might have been used.

"Sherlock," Mary took hold of him. "Please, for my sake, for all our sakes, leave this one, it's not ours to solve."

"The story will only be half-told, Mary, if even that,"

"Then it will be their choice," Mycroft put in. "This is not our country, we have no right to be here, we are all in a precarious position, would you risk Mary's life on a selfish desire? Would you risk never seeing your wife again?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock stepped away, dropping whatever cloth he'd been holding. He looked at the half-folded letters on the nightstand, then finally shut his eyes tight and turned away from the scene. The more information he took in, the more he'd try to solve it. The less he knew, the better.

Quietly, Mary unlocked the window, and putting out the candle, set it between her teeth so as not to singe the lining of her pocket with the smoldering wick. She climbed out, then bent, waving the others to follow her.

"The wrong one has died," Sherlock murmured to his brother suddenly. "We had assumed an assassination would be made by the crown-prince on his Majesty. It doesn't make sense. Why would someone assassinate Rudolf and his mistress?"

"It is a tragedy," Mycroft agreed. "But one that will not be the cause of a war. Had I been given a choice, I should say the right Royal was sacrificed."

"One tragedy for another?"

"Neither are ideal," Mycroft agreed. "But this one will not affect the state of the nation, not totally, at any rate. Come, I hear the valet on the stairs." Hurriedly, they slipped out the window, shut it noiselessly behind them, and scuttled along the side of the house, until they reached a trellis. A handkerchief was passed among them, carefully, so they could wipe the soles of their shoes before climbing down. The ground was still frozen, so there was no fear of leaving tracks. Still, there was nearly five miles of Austrian countryside and forest to trek through until they could reach the carriage that was waiting for Mycroft.

Through the scrub and the underbrush, they ran, burrs and branches swatted them around their legs and waists until finally they reached a half-way point.

"Stop a moment," Mycroft said, seeing Mary Morstan was beginning to lag.

"Sorry," she murmured, holding her side. "I've got a stitch, ordinarily I'd press on, and I say we do in a few moments after we catch our breath, pains in my side or not."

"We're far enough away for now," Mycroft answered.

"Down!" Sherlock hissed, and they all fell face-first to the forest floor. They were not far from the back road. A man on a horse went racing by them, in the direction of the town.

"They've found them, then," Mary said, hushed.

"Let's get moving," Sherlock murmured. "There is a carriage waiting for you, correct?" he looked to Mycroft.

"There is. The horses will be fresh, they've rested all day."

"Then I suggest we take that back to England," Sherlock answered. "We will avoid the trains and any other public transport at all costs."

"Agreed," Mary and Mycroft answered.

By carriage, it would take them all of three days, if the horses could be changed on the way, and stops were minimal. But it would mean a much safer crossing at borders for all of them.

Helping Mary to her feet, Sherlock advised her to follow a step behind him and Mycroft.

Mycroft twisted the handle of his umbrella (how he managed to hold onto it whilst scaling the side of Mayerling, Mary was not sure) there was a clicking sound, and suddenly he slipped the end of the umbrella away, thrusting the spindly bits and cloth at Sherlock to hold. Mycroft held a short sword, and stepping forward, began clearing a sort of path for them.

"I am sick of being cut and my clothes torn," he excused, hacking at the shrubs. "Stay near."

 **Hart Castle, West Sussex, England**

"All right, Molly?" John asked, noting her expression of discomfort. She rubbed her lower belly, leaning against the mantle.

"She's been doing that all day," Rosie spoke up. "She won't tell you, but she has,"

"It's nothing," Molly assured them. "Just indigestion, I'm sure."

"Not on the scraps you've been eating," John answered her. "Come on, Rosie, please close the doors to the salon. I shall examine Mrs. Holmes here. You run and fetch a basin of hot water and a cake of soap for me."

"Downstairs?" Rosie gaped. "You're going to examine her downstairs?"

The footman who had been lingering in the corner coughed, then scurried off to fetch the water and soap, and probably inform the rest of the staff to keep well away from the salon for the next half hour or so.

"There's no point in shuffling her all the way upstairs, to have her come all the way back downstairs, which I know she will," John answered, eyes twinkling at Molly, who managed a half-smile. "Now go on. The salon will do for an examination room. Molly, come on, on the sofa, knees up,"

"You do make being pregnant so elegant," she grumbled. "Anyone listening might think you're about to have your way with me."

"Hmm yes, I've often dreamt of seducing a heavily pregnant woman who is not my wife," John retorted, and this time, she genuinely laughed. "Come on now, you know it's for the best,"

John, Molly admitted, was a terribly good doctor, and his bedside manner was always good. He always spoke kindly, and his touch was as gentle as he could manage. There is nothing polite about a doctor's visit, especially when one is so far along in their pregnancy, but John always managed to be as tactful and kind as possible, easing her worry and discomfort.

Afterwards, John helped her arrange her clothes again, and situated a pillow at her lower back so she could sit up.

"It won't be long now," he said, washing his hands and drying them. He tugged on the pull, alerting the staff that it was all clear again.

Molly scooted forward a little, taking in what he'd just said. "What, you mean-"

John nodded. "Yes, you'll officially be a mother in a week or so, or I'd miss my guess."

"B-but Mycroft isn't back, and- and neither is Mary!" she stuttered, feeling as if she were on the verge of tears. Mary might be bringing Sherlock back. At the very least, Mycroft had promised to be there! And here it was, only the first week they were gone!

"There, there," John soothed (he could not know of course, that Mary might have been bringing Sherlock home, and that was why Molly was so upset). "I shall be here with you, every step of the way, and Anthea too, and Rosie, we'll make sure you're well taken care of, I promise. We might have a surprise, by the time Mycroft and Mary come home!" He kissed her forehead. "Buck up now, I want you to come and have a proper lunch, I mean it, Molly. You want to have a healthy baby, don't you?"

She nodded, wiping her eyes.

"Then you must have your meals, all of them, and something in-between too."

"I'm so fat already," she moaned. What would Sherlock think of her when he came home to a wife as big as a house?

"Baby is hungry, and growing, so you must feed it," John said. "You're lovely, Molly, never worry for that," another brotherly kiss to her forehead. "Come along, cook made all your favorites," He helped her to her feet and guided her through to the parlor where luncheon was set out. Anthea was already plating up portions for them both.

Worry for Sherlock, for Mycroft and Mary had taken away Molly's appetite, but upon seeing a plate for her, full of steak and kidney pudding, of cold cuts and scotch eggs and wonderfully sharp cheese, Molly found herself sitting. She did not need John to hand her a fork, she took one up herself.

"I'm sorry if I'm being silly," she said at last, having taken a few bites.

"Never mind," Anthea said with a wave of her hand. "A mother-to-be may be as silly as she likes, it's her privilege."

John smiled obligingly, agreeing. He could only chalk up Molly's lack of appetite to worry at her brother in-law's absence. Of course she would be worried! Here she had lost her husband, and now the man who had promised to be there for the birth of his nephew (or niece) was not there when he needed to be.

"Shall I wire Mycroft?" John asked, midway through the meal. "Would that put you at ease some?"

Molly shook her head. "No, please don't trouble him. He promised to be back in a few weeks," she stroked her belly, feeling the baby shift. "We'll just have to be patient. Perhaps baby can wait a little longer for them to return."

Patience, it would seem, would not be inherited from Molly, for the following day, just after the dressing gong was rung, Molly felt her waters let.

Rosie went screeching down the hall, bursting in on Watson who was, fortunately, nearly ready to go down to dinner.

"Good heavens, Rosie, what is it?" he demanded.

"Her waters broke, Mrs. Holmes is having her baby and-and-and-"

"There, there," Watson soothed.

Rosie had never seen someone give birth before, she had no idea how the process went. All she knew was that her mistress was doubled over by the dressing table, exclaiming that her waters had let. Rosie thought that meant the baby was coming immediately after.

"There's no one to catch it, she's all alone, shall I get a basket?"

Watson chuckled, soothing the girls' tear-stained cheeks. "Go downstairs, have Mrs. Danvers put on water, water for coffee, or tea, something to keep our strength up. Have her send up some light biscuits or crackers, something that Molly can eat without much effort, and plenty of cool water and clean rags, and towels and blankets. Go on, it's your job until the baby is born to see to it we have enough fresh linens to change the bed clothes, and to keep Molly comfortable, can you do that?"

Rosie nodded, and took off like a flash, yelling all the way that a baby was coming. Downstairs would soon enough be in a flurry, so Watson wasted no time in grabbing his medical bag and hurrying down the hall to Molly's open door.

"Oh come in," she called, seeing he was about to knock before he stepped in.

"I think this little one is going to give you a bit of trouble," Watson said as he set his bag down by the bed. "Give me your arm, I'd like you on the bed, let's find out what baby is doing, and we'll plan accordingly."

Molly could only nod, grimacing as Watson took her arm and had her lean on him. She could only hope that Mycroft and Mary were on their way, and hopefully with Sherlock close behind.


	13. War, What Is It Good For?

**Ferry crossing, midway across The Channel**

"We'll be home by three," Mycroft said, checking his pocket watch.

"Provided we are not smashed to bits," Sherlock grumbled. He sat on the deck of the ship, doubled over, looking quite green. Mary, while not relishing the waves tossing the little steamer, seemed to have gained her sea-legs.

"Steamer is fastest," she offered. "At least we didn't have to wait for high-tide."

"Hmm, with any luck we shan't have to wait for it coming in either," Mycroft agreed. Sherlock only groaned, slumping over.

"Cheer up," Mary knelt by him, "You'll be home soon enough."

"Hmm. And all can go back as it was," Sherlock sighed, shutting his eyes. "Excusing some needed changes, of course."

Mary and Mycroft exchanged glances.

"How do you mean?"

"I mean Watson pining after you from every corner of Baker Street rather than just his study," he snapped, irritable. "What do you think I mean?" he straightened a little. "I intend to have a rather private discussion with Molly, if you must know, or shall I be indelicate?"

"I'd rather you didn't," Mycroft replied. "However, if you are meaning for the pair of you to stop this silly charade of being separated, then I am all too pleased to hear it."

"Hm."

He watched his brother retreat to the other side of the deck, probably to read the letter from Anthea that had arrived while they changed carriages in Paris.

"What's wrong?" Mary asked. "I know that look on you."

"I am tired," Sherlock confessed, running a hand over his face. He desperately needed a shave. His months away had been chaotic at best. Shaving was not top of his priorities, and while he'd managed to keep the beard trim, he was growing irritated at it more and more. Molly had once said she liked him clean-shaven. Add to it, he had been running up and down Europe for nine months or so. Memories of his last night with Molly, of the promise it held on his return had kept him going, fueling his desire to rid the world of Moriarty's far-reaching web of lies.

"I know you are," Mary pressed his forehead in sisterly affection. "Go on and rest. I'll keep watch. It's all right, Mycroft and I are here."

"I haven't slept properly in weeks, why should I sleep now?" he groused, slumping lower, nearly folding into himself, eyes shutting as he whinged.

"Don't be so cross," she admonished. "And you'll sleep because we're almost home. You want to be looking somewhat human before Molly sees you."

"Hm."

Already his eyes were closing. His rest would not be deep, but it would give him a little strength for the rest of the journey home. He'd sleep better once they boarded the train waiting for them in Dover. Mycroft had sent a cable, and a private car would be bringing them to the station near Hart Caste.

Seeing the elder Holmes had finished reading his letter, Mary got to her feet, approaching him.

"You're worried about what happened in Austria," she said, coming to stand beside him.

Mycroft nodded. "I will have to return in probably a day or so, for the funeral."

"Oh let the Royal Family go," Mary answered, peevish. "It's their bloody cousin."

"If the Queen cannot attend-"

"She will," Mary answered. "For family she always does. And if she does not, then one of the young prince's will. It's not your duty."

"I feel somehow as if it is, as if I've failed the Family somehow."

"Austria is not your affair, nor was this Mayerling business," Mary soothed.

"You don't understand," Mycroft said, quite sternly. "The Houses of Europe are joined," his voice fell to a hushed whisper, barely above the waves hitting the boat, lest anyone overheard them. "If this was suicide, influence from someone will be assumed, if it was assassination, everyone comes under scrutiny, and the Families will be suspicious. Tensions are already high enough with the assassination in Russia-"

"That was years ago-"

"History marks paths, Miss Morstan," he answered quietly. "If this was an assassination, I am afraid it is just another pin in the roadway, leading to something a good deal larger than we expected."

"You suspect Russia?" Mary asked softly, eyes wide, too frightened of the implications.

"At this moment, everyone but England is a suspect, because we have nothing to gain from such an attempt."

Mary nodded, thoughtful. "You're afraid it will lead to war, Sherlock feared as much when I met up with him."

"He was right to have such a fear," Mycroft nodded. "Perhaps a mistake was made, perhaps this is all just a terrible tragedy, and a young couple was overcome by their troubles that they preferred a cowardly end to their lives. It is crass of me to say, but I hope that is all this was, for the world's sake."

"You can't stop a war, if one is coming."

"Everyone is itching to show what they can do," Mycroft said with a heavy sigh. For the first time, Mary saw the stern politician slip away, the worries and problems he faced every single day showed on his face. "They don't realize the affect it will have on everyone, everyone."

"Mycroft…" Mary paused, licking her lips. She had a terrible, awful feeling Mycroft knew more than he was letting on. "Mycroft what do you know?"

He was looking out at the Channel, quite lost in thought. "We've made so much progress in the past decades, wonderful inventions, brilliant leaps in science, but all success must come with a downside. All these wonderful machines and inventions, if they were somehow twisted to make weapons for a war, in this day and age, what do you think the brilliant minds of today might come up with?"

Mary had no answer. She couldn't think of anything to say. It was true, they were in the wonderful age of discovery, every day there were new patents, something to make lives easier. She had not stopped to think that perhaps the world powers might take those clever men and put them to work designing wicked machines meant for killing.

"Even England?" she asked softly.

Wordlessly, Mycroft nodded. He reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a cigarette, and handed her another. She took it, thanked him for lighting it, waited for him to light his own and draw in a long breath before he spoke again. "We must keep up with everyone else, and every country has so many brilliant minds, everyone is coming up with some sort of dreadful contraption, too many. Everyone is thrilled at the work," he meant the people involved. "They see power in metal and machine and engines and bullets and…" he stopped for a moment swallowing hard. In the glow of their cigarettes, she could see his eyes were misty. He uttered one more word, Mary did not quite make it out, but it sounded as if he had said _'bomb'._ He took one more drag from his cigarette, releasing his breath, smoke being carried away in the wind. "They don't see what will come of all this power: families ripped apart, scarred battlefields, ash and blood and smoke, but by God, it's for the glory of us, isn't it?" he pounded the railing once, and Mary had the distinct feeling he was quoting a colleague, but not out of admiration. "They don't see the lasting affects these things will have on us, on the people they're meant for," his mouth twisted bitterly. "If we have made such cruel devices, what has everyone else made? Something more sinister? Their own rendition, I'd imagine." He sighed heavily, gathering himself. Mary was so unused to seeing him so upset, so very _human_. "War is not coming, not yet. I would have had a dozen and a half messages by now."

"But it is coming."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "Perhaps in a few years, perhaps in a decade. The art of starting a war is not one I am familiar with. I am rather happily situated on the side of preventing them."

"You're afraid this is one you can't stop," Mary said.

He gave the tiniest of nods. "All I can do is delay it for a little while."

A bell clanging overhead made them both turn. "Come along," he took one more drag from his cigarette then dropped it to the deck, stamping it out. "We ought to wake Sherlock. We'll be docking soon."


	14. Give Me Peace

Molly keened, chin bowed against her chest. The contractions were slow in coming, and for two days she labored. Watson remained, as ever, calm and collected, but she knew he must have been fretting. Molly couldn't blame him; she was worried as well. Labors weren't meant to last this long, were they? She worried something was wrong, though Watson promised her the baby was in the correct position.

"Some babies take longer," he reassured her. "I once had a mother labor for nearly a week."

"Oh no please," Molly sobbed, the idea of being in such a predicament for three more days made her feel faint with exhaustion. "Please…"

"You're doing marvelously well," he soothed, and he pressed a kiss to her fevered brow. "Will you have any of the lunch that cook sent up? You need to keep up your strength."

"Just the broth, I can't fathom chewing, I'll bite my tongue," she breathed, contractions ebbing for a moment. He hastened the mug to her lips, helping her steady the cup in her trembling hand.

"I wish you'd have a sandwich," he fretted. "Beef broth is hardly enough."

"Bread and butter will suit," she admitted. "And any ice that can be spared, I am overheated."

"The room must be warm," he answered, and looked in the water glass to see if any ice chips remained. "And I'd rather you have cheese."

"Oh then cheese for heaven's sake!" she snapped. "And for heaven's sake I'm giving birth, not a hen being roasted for Sunday!"

He couldn't fault her annoyance. Mothers in her condition were generally overheated, and he was quite warm as well, but the room must be warm for baby, so the fire would have to be kept going.

"Warm is best," he reassured her. "I'll send for more ice-chips though."

"Don't let Rosie in, she'll be frightened!" Molly implored.

"I won't let anyone in you don't want to," Watson promised.

In a little while a tray was sent up with bread and cheese and a note promising more ice chips as soon as more could be procured.

"Here," Watson took the knife and cut her a little. "Looks like cook made a good sourdough for you. Something hearty,"

"Humph," she took it, ripping it in half to take a bite. She managed to finish two slices and a few bites of cheese before a fierce contraction took hold of her, and Watson dropped his sandwich, rushing to her side. Feeling along her belly and having a look below was all the answer he needed.

"You're nearly there!" he crowed.

"You've been saying that for two days!" she cried.

"I meant it then too, only this time I mean that baby is beginning to crown,"

"Is that what that is?" she growled out, positively monstrous as she dug her heels into the mattress.

"Nice steady breaths, push with the next contraction," Watson said. "Baby will be born in the next few minutes."

"Thank heaven," she breathed, bearing down.

~O~

Downstairs, servants milled about, trying to keep busy with their usual tasks. The cries from upstairs kept everyone running back to the foyer, to see if there was anyone at the railing calling for something. There had been such an awful wail from upstairs that they had all scurried in, expecting Doctor Watson to be holding a baby. They stood there, staring up at the stairway, waiting. They did not hear the door open, nor the suitcase being set down.

"Is there a meeting I was not aware of?"

The group turned with a start, surprised to see their master, then suddenly all looked fearfully at each other. It was the butler who stepped forward, taking Mycroft's coat, gesturing for the other two footmen to help the younger Holmes and Miss Morstan with their things.

"Welcome home, Sir, we were not aware you would be coming home so soon."

"I did say several weeks," Mycroft acquiesced. "But that does not explain why nearly all but the cook are upstairs."

"Mrs. Holmes has gone into labor, sir," Wiggins stepped forward now, Rosie hanging onto his hand, both glancing between the elder and younger Holmes. "Two days ago, as it were. We were wondering if the baby had come yet."

"You did not tell me Anthea was expecting," Sherlock said, somewhat accusatory to his brother. He felt rather insulted that Mycroft did not convey such happy tidings to him.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock quite steadily. "She's not."

It took him only a moment to understand what his brother meant. It took him another moment to take the stairs three at a time, nearly knocking down the poor maid who was stationed at the top of the stairs to relay messages.

Mind racing, Sherlock slid to a stop outside of what had to have been Molly's room. Of course it was, it was the only door that was shut, and, too, he could hear her crying. A different sort of cry than he had previous heard from her. Molly's tears were shed softly, though when she was genuinely upset, her quiet sobs could be heard. Her anguish made his chest hurt, usually because he felt as if he were somehow to blame. Now though, the awful screams that were ripped from her, (he undoubtedly was the cause, in this case) put such a fear in him that he stood, unmoving outside of the door, staring at the wood paneling.

He jumped when Mary squeezed his arm. He had not realized she'd followed him up. "She needs you, Sherlock, more than ever,"

"I...am…I am afraid," he murmured softly.

"Of what?"

Another wail broke through the silence, and he shut his eyes, pained. "What if-"

"Don't worry about any of that right now. Go see her, she needs you, no matter what doctors say about husbands in the birthing room." With that she opened the door and bustled him in, following close behind. She rolled up her sleeves. "Is this water clean for hands?" she asked.

"Yes," Watson answered over his shoulder. "Soap cake in the saucer by the- Mary!" he started, then beamed at her. "You're a sight for sore eyes,"

"I thought you'd need a nurse," she smiled brightly, quickly washing up.

Molly only had eyes for the man whom Mary had pushed in. She had expected Mycroft. "Sherlock!" Molly gasped, strained, disbelieving and relieved all at once.

It was then John Watson realized that someone else had come in with Mary, that they lingered in the doorway. He stared, unable to form a coherent thought, much less speak at the man who had supposedly been dead. For a the barest of seconds, no one spoke, no one could move.

"I ought to thrash you," Watson ground out. "You-"

Another wail from Molly and he turned immediately back to her.

"Molly no you oughtn't-" he began, but lost his words, quite overcome at the sight of Molly catching her own baby, the child slipping out of her and into the world, her mother having a firm grasp on her. The child let out a cry, fists curled over.

She was laughing and crying, sheer joy shining on her face as she gazed at the child in her hands, then to Sherlock who was still standing at the end of the bed, just as awe-struck.

Only Mary seemed capable of movement at this point, true enough, she'd seen women catch their own babies plenty of times. While it was almost the norm for her by now, it was no less marvelous as when she'd first seen it done.

"I'm sure he'll let you hit him when this is all sorted," Mary promised. "But for now, let's focus on what's important."

Sherlock divested himself of his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, he took the cake of soap from Mary's outstretched hand. "Where can I be of use?"

"Outside!" John barked.

"No!" Molly cried, cradling the baby. "No please, I almost lost him once." There was truth in that, indeed, over the past nine months, she had nearly lost him many times, but Sherlock would not say. In that moment too, he decided it was best not to let Watson know of Molly's involvement.

"Lean back, Molly, rest for now, there's still the afterbirth, Sherlock get a blanket," Mary instructed, and he went about finding something suitable in the room. She took a clean linen, gently wiping down the child as Molly wept over it. She soothed her friend, smiling at the baby in her arms, murmuring words of encouragement and praise.

Having found a soft blanket, Sherlock approached the bed, handing it to Mary, now stopped to fully take in the sight of Molly. "Is there another basin of clean water?" Sherlock asked softly, quite enraptured by his wife.

His _wife_. Firstly, that she was _still_ such, second, that such a marvelous woman was so, thirdly, that he had not only witnessed the birth of their first child, but that he had seen this serene, brilliant woman pull the child from her. He had never been more proud, more thrilled. He was so pleased he could not speak anymore, he felt as if he might burst.

"Holmes!"

He turned with a start, seeing Watson standing beside him, the baby wrapped up now, cleaned off, still crying. "I said would you like to hold your daughter?" Watson did not wait for him to respond, he placed the girl in his friend's arms and stepped back, turning to see if Mary needed help.

"Bring her here," Molly's soft voice called him, and slowly, he came and sat on the side of the bed, angling to face her.

"Firstly," Sherlock said, and kissed Molly, not as he had wanted their first kiss upon his return to be, but a very welcome, very tender embrace that was fitting. "My sweetest-" he blinked, beaming again. "I have no words," he confessed.

"That is a first," Molly laughed, leaning her head against him. "The Great Sherlock Holmes was rendered speechless by a baby."

"Our baby," he corrected. He carefully passed her back to Molly's waiting arms.

"I'm glad you're not upset," she said softly.

"Why should I be upset?"

"Well…that I didn't tell you or-" she stopped then, looking at him properly. "Why on earth did you grow a beard?"

"Oh," he scratched his chin and jaw. "There never seemed to be time for shaving, I did try and keep it neat though."

"I hope you'll shave it off," Molly laughed and leaned towards him, kissing him again.

"At once," he promised. "For you, Molly Hooper Holmes, for the foreseeable future, I'll do whatever you like, and happily."

"Stay," she murmured, teary-eyed. She looked down at the baby in her arms then back up at him. "Just stay with us."

On tiptoe, John and Mary slipped out of the room.

"I ought to stay, she may need something," John said as Mary shut the door behind them.

"At this point, there's little else to do," Mary said. "The bedsheets are changed; the afterbirth is delivered and baby is washed up. I imagine if she gets hungry, Molly will feed her. Let's leave them be a while."

Together they brought the dirty bedsheets and the basin containing the afterbirth downstairs. Having deposited the items in their respected places, John sank down into one of the chairs by the kitchen door.

Quietly, Mary approached him. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"I suppose I must be," he said with a sigh. "Yes of course I am. I am quite mad, if I'm honest," he looked up at her. "And I ought to be furious with you. You seem to know a good deal more than you ever let on."

"You've every right," she answered quietly. "There's a good many things I have not told you, John Watson, things that I will explain, if you'll let me."

"Will you tell me first," he said, pausing to lick his dry lips. "Will you tell me if you came to Baker Street, were you sent there to...distract me?"

"No!" she took the seat beside him, turning his head in her hands so she could look directly at him. "John Watson don't ever believe for a moment that my feelings for you are a farce, that they were ever a pretense. My love for you came about quite unexpectedly, and I don't regret for one moment anything between us."

"I don't know what to think anymore," he confessed. He smoothed her hand, and after a long while, he bent, kissing her knuckles. "If you will please explain to me, this once, what's happened, what you know, I will leave it be, and we'll go on as before."

She stood, smoothing down her dress. "It's a long story, we'll need a pot of tea." Tugging him by the hand, she guided him back inside, through to the kitchen. Even as John followed her through, there was clarity in his foggy thoughts. He was certain that he still loved her, and was sure she loved him. He was hurt that she knew of Sherlock's being alive, but if he knew Mary, he knew there was a terribly good reason for it. He would give her that chance to explain, because she'd offered the information willingly, as soon as she was able. It was simply another facet of her that he would come to admire.

 **Upstairs**

"She is perfect," Mycroft declared, holding his niece in his arms. Molly had sent Sherlock to fetch Mycroft and Anthea as soon as they'd had a moment alone. Sherlock, while less than pleased, was soon placated, more than happy to show off his daughter.

"As lovely as her mother," Anthea said, standing beside him. "I'm just so upset that I missed the whole thing, and I promised to be here!"

"Don't fret, you couldn't have known your meeting would go on for so long this morning," Molly said. "Anyway, she was taking such a long time, the world won't stop because she got shy!"

At this Anthea laughed and kissed her cheek. "You're a darling, and I'm so happy for you, for both of you."

"I'll send up a tray for you both," Mycroft said, placing the baby back in Molly's waiting arms, he paused then, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Well done, you." His finger traced the smooth unbroken skin of the child before he withdrew his hand. He fell silent a moment, lost in his thoughts as he admired the innocent child once more, almost envious, even. He took Anthea's arm, and together they left Sherlock and Molly alone again.

"You're very quiet," she said, once the door was shut.

"If I am, it is only because I can't think of anything to say," Sherlock answered honestly. "I am more happy than I can say, to finally be home, to be here at such a time, and with such a welcome surprise." He bent then, reverently kissing her, then smoothed the top of their daughter's head.

"You never got my letter?" she asked. "I told you so in my letter to you."

He frowned. "No I never did."

"I sent it with Mycroft."

"He never went into his suitcase," Sherlock answered. "And events had happened quite fast, we did not stop for breath until we reached the Channel."

"Then I shall forgive him," Molly decided. "I am too happy to be upset with him anyway."

"We must think of names," he murmured.

"I rather like Ottillie," Molly said. "It's rather popular-"

"Oh surely not," Sherlock blanched.

"Good heavens, what a snob you are," she laughed. "Very well, what do you want?"

"I haven't given it much thought, considering I only just found out as you were pulling her from your nethers," Sherlock said, earning him a pinch from Molly. "But I like Charlotte."

"Charlotte Pearl Holmes, then," Molly said.

"'Pearl'?" he parroted back to her.

"Yes, 'Pearl' because I say so, and I like it. And yes I got it from a novel, so you'll just have to lump it."

Sherlock said nothing, only kissed her once more. "I believe the correct response is 'yes, darling'," he grinned. "Oh! I'm sending a cable to Mrs. Hudson tomorrow, your things will be moved to my room as soon as possible."

"My things are already in your room- our room, I moved them after you went away," Molly said, adjusting the blanket around Charlotte. "Anyway, you ought to see Mrs. Hudson face-to-face, the poor woman is under the assumption you're dead."

He hummed in agreement, then paused to study her. "You moved your things back?"

"Of course I did," she said. Glancing up from tugging down her nightgown to feed Charlotte. "I knew you would come back eventually, and when you did, we certainly weren't going back to the way things were before you left."

He sighed, relieved. "I should hope not."

"I had thought you'd learned to live without me," she said after a long while, stroking Charlotte's soft hair and ears. "It wasn't until last year, when the bomb across from Baker Street went off that I'd begun to hope again, that perhaps you might've felt something."

"I've always felt so," he said.

She gave him a look.

"Very well," he nodded. "Not…at first, those first awful years, I don't think I felt much of anything."

"There were some good moments," Molly objected. "Some…rare, happy times."

"Very rare," he said. "How on earth did you put up with me?"

"Because I hadn't anywhere else to go, and I knew you were better than what you claimed to be," Molly answered without missing a beat. "I knew that given time, you'd become the man sitting beside me now."

"I don't know whatever I have done to deserve you, certainly nothing to deserve her," he admired Charlotte, marveled at how Molly had so quickly slipped into the role of mother, feeding their child, their _child_ , good heavens. It was still so new and wonderful, Sherlock found himself blinking back tears.

"Dear man," Molly reached up, caressing his cheek. "You've done everything to deserve us."

"You must forgive me if I don't believe you," he answered hoarsely. "But I shall endeavor to be worthy of you, both of you."

"I'll hold you to it." With that they closed the distance, careful not to jostle Charlotte, embracing sweetly.

 **Down the hall**

Anthea watched her husband from her vanity mirror.

"You're very pensive," she said at last. "What happened over there?"

He looked up from the wingback chair, then to the half-drunk glass of whisky in his hands. "I expect the papers have printed it by now, that the Crown Prince Rudolf was found dead."

"Yes, and his mistress. Is that what called you away so suddenly?"

"Funnily enough, no," Mycroft shook his head. "Sherlock suspected foul play, and cabled me. We arrived and found them, not long after the incident."

"What! You saw the crown prince, dead!"

"Yes, and I'll thank you to keep that under wraps," Mycroft said, hushed.

"Of course, but…oh Mycroft whatever does it mean? Was it murder?"

"I don't know," he confessed. "I have exhausted nearly all possibilities, and I cannot say. We did not linger, and we did not like to touch anything, lest we leave fingerprints."

"No of course not, you did right, of course you did. But…if it was-"

"If, if, if," Mycroft sighed, looking heavenward. "Every day there are a thousand 'ifs'." He was so weary sounding, not simply from the trip that Anthea crossed the room, seating herself on the arm of the chair, curling her arms around him and resting her head against his.

"Tell me what is wrong, love."

"I don't want to think of anything else tonight, except that I am an uncle, that, at last, Molly is on her way to being content as she deserves, and Sherlock is safe. Most importantly that you will be beside me tonight." He said. "The world will allow me that, this once. I don't want to think of the dirty politics and factories and the business of war or of the world outside. I'll face it all again in the morning. Just…let me have peace tonight."

"Then you shall have just that," Anthea said, and sank down onto his lap. She did not understand all of what plagued her husband, and his mention of war, of how the crown prince's death may affect them sent a chill up her spine. Clearly, he anticipated something she did not, and it worried her. She could not be his personal secretary and help him carry the burden of his work, but she could give him what he needed now: a quiet evening, a peaceful night in her arms, and she would do so a thousand times more, knowing that even the brilliant men of the world get weary.

He quite suddenly stood, and lifted her in his arms, carrying her to bed.

"What happens tomorrow?" she could not help but ask.

"I would imagine we all sleep in, given the past week we've had," Mycroft said, putting out the lamps at the bedside. "I suggest beyond that, we remain as innocent as our niece is of the world outside this house."

Anthea drew him close, smiling at him in the dark. "I couldn't agree more."

The world would go on spinning, and Mycroft knew in the back of his mind that war was inevitable, a great war that would change the world as they knew it, certainly not for the better, either. But it had not happened yet, and for once, he happily decided to revel in the moment, rather than worry for the cares of tomorrow. Life, after all, at this time, was very good. He was home and safe with his wife. Down the hall, Sherlock and Molly were at last reunited, as they should be. Yes, for the moment, all was right with the world.

 _The End_


End file.
